


How Particular, My Fondness of You

by cedarbranch



Series: Athenaeum Verse [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: (like not Really but at least like. the anxiety of being ace and interested in someone who isn't), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Library, Background Basira Hussain/Alice "Daisy" Tonner, Background Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Background Gerard Keay/Michael Shelley, Canon Asexual Character, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Internalized Acephobia, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Slice of Life, Slow Burn, Trans Gerard Keay, Trans Martin Blackwood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:46:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24006085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cedarbranch/pseuds/cedarbranch
Summary: Jon risks a glance over to Georgie, expecting sympathy, or perhaps a grave expression of solidarity. Instead, he’s met with a fond smile. “Oh, Jon,” she says patiently, reaching over to rub his back. “You poor thing. You’re lovesick.”Jon recoils. “I amnot,” he says accusingly.-A college AU in which the whole gang works at the library, Jon is emotionally repressed, and the anonymous Facebook page knows all.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: Athenaeum Verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769314
Comments: 139
Kudos: 807





	How Particular, My Fondness of You

**Author's Note:**

> massive disclaimer: i know nothing about british universities. this fic might be set in england, but it's VERY much based on the american education system, so prepare to suspend your disbelief. also, since there's background gerrymichael in this, i'm gonna slap in a disclaimer about them being the same age. 
> 
> why are none of the characters library science majors, you may ask? because fuck the magnus institute. fuck the magnus institute is why. (also, i wanted some variety in their programs lol). 
> 
> title taken from [loving like an existentialist](https://youtu.be/DrL-Go-pGy0) by savannah brown, one of my favorite love poems :-)

_i could grow fond of many things, but how particular, my fondness of you. how fervent, how violent, how gentle. - savannah brown_

***

The sky is dark, it’s pouring rain, and Jon is late to work.

He opens up his umbrella and angles it toward the wind, hurrying across campus as quickly as he can. The roads have all turned to rivers, and by the time he makes it to the library his shoes are soaked through. He ducks under the outcropping near the door and shakes out his umbrella, then pushes his way inside.

The library is warm and dry, a world away from the storm outside. It’s a pleasantly confined space, filled with books, students hunched over the tables, and the faint sound of laptop keyboards clacking. Jon wipes some of the rainwater out of his hair and heads to the front desk. The attendant, Rosie, is busy talking to a student, but she lights up when she sees him.

“Hold on just a moment,” she says to the student, then addresses Jon: “Jon, welcome back! It’s so good to see you again. Had a good holiday, did you?”

“Yes, it was very nice,” Jon says, taking off his messenger bag. “And yours?”

“Oh, just lovely. Got the whole family together. It’s good to be back, though.”

“True,” Jon replies. The holidays are a nice break, but this is his real home. Even when everything else changes, the library is frozen in time, the same quiet, comforting sanctuary. He’s already relaxing a little, just from drinking in the atmosphere.

“Yes, it’ll be nice to get back into the routine… Oh! That reminds me,” Rosie says. “Sorry, Martin—this is Jon. He’ll be showing you around for today.”

“Nice to meet you,” says the student she was talking to.

There’s far too long of a pause before Jon says, “What?” 

“He’s the new hire! I emailed you about it a few days ago, remember?” Rosie prompts.

To be quite honest, Jon doesn’t. He vaguely recalls an email from Rosie, but he’d just skimmed over it and given a quick reply. He’s been so busy trying to decide on his classes for this semester that for the past week, everything else has been an afterthought. 

And now he gets to babysit the new hire. Wonderful. 

“Martin, this is Jon,” says Rosie. “He’s been here since his first year. You have any questions, just ask him. Jon, I was thinking you could give him a tour of the stacks first, show him around a bit?” She smiles encouragingly. Jon bites back a sigh. 

“Right,” he says. “Follow me.”

Martin trots along after him toward the elevator. “So, you’ve been working here since your first year?” he says. “What are you now, a fourth year?”

“No, third,” says Jon. “You?” Martin looks younger. He’s short and freckled, with curly ginger hair and glasses, and his knit jumper is rolled up at the wrists. It could almost be endearing, but it just makes him look like an underclassman trying too hard. 

“Me too,” says Martin. Jon blinks. Oh. So Martin is his age, then. That’s a little sad, actually. 

He presses the button beside the elevator. “Have you ever worked in a library before?” he asks. Martin shakes his head. Great. “You’ve been in here before, though, right?” 

Martin laughs. “Of course.”

“Well, you never know.” The doors swish open, and Jon steps inside, pushing the button for the second floor. “We can make the tour of the stacks quick, then. I’ll just show you how the shelving system works, and then I’ll teach you how to check the books out and look them up in the catalogue.”

“Sounds simple enough,” says Martin. 

“I wish it was,” Jon mutters. “You’d think it would be easy, but half the time you can never find anything.”

Martin pauses, as if waiting for Jon to laugh, or give away the joke. Jon doesn’t. There’s a bit of an awkward silence as they wait for the elevator to go up. They step out onto the second floor, and Martin asks, “So what’s your major?”

“History.”

“Oh, cool! Mine’s English. Kind of stereotypical for a library worker, I know, but here I am. I always wanted to work in one of the libraries, really, I’ve just never gotten the interview until now.”

“Yes, well. One of our other staff members graduated after the fall semester, and another transferred, so.” Jon goes quiet. It’s strange to think of the semester ahead without Sasha. They’d been working together since they were eighteen: it was always Jon, Sasha, and Tim. Even once the others joined up, they were the main trio. 

Now there’s just Martin.

He keeps asking Jon questions as they walk around the stacks. Jon can’t stand small talk on a good day, but now it’s distracting him from showing Martin how to do his job, and it’s all Jon can do not to snap at him. He manages not to, though, and Martin remains unflinchingly cheerful. Half an hour with him is enough to wear Jon out.

It’s going to be a long semester.

***

Martin’s next couple of shifts with Jon are no better than the first. He’s still overly chipper, and he makes a new mistake every other minute. Jon really shouldn’t be so harsh on him, he knows that, but something about Martin’s fumbles gets on his nerves. Maybe it’s because Martin’s always so apologetic, and it hasn’t led to any improvement so far. Maybe it’s because every time Martin has to scan a book three times, he blushes and stammers his way through the rest of the interaction, and tells whoever checked the book out to have a good night when it’s barely past noon. 

Maybe it’s because Tim had winked at Martin the other day, and it would just be cruel and unusual punishment for Jon to be the only member of the library staff to _not_ be dating one of his coworkers. It’s not that he minds being single, but the constant reminders of it do get tiresome sometimes. He’d prefer to avoid becoming a total third wheel. If only Sasha were still here; she and Jon could complain about it together. 

Jon swipes out and waves to Martin as he goes. “Bye!” Martin calls out. Jon ducks out the revolving door and into the warm light of the afternoon.

He pulls out his phone and goes into his favorite contacts. Basira should be out of class by now. Sure enough, she picks up after the second ring. Only: “Why do you always insist on calling?” asks Melanie’s voice. “Can’t you text like a normal human being?”

“Melanie,” says Jon, only mildly confused. “Why do you have Basira’s phone?”

“She went to the bathroom and left it in here. Why’re you calling?”

“I was… just wondering if I could come study with her.”

“That’s probably—oh, here we go. Basira, can Jon come over?” Melanie asks. There’s a pause. “Yeah, you’re fine. Are you coming from the library? If you pass the Green Room on your way, bring me a muffin, I’m starved.”

“Will do.” 

Jon does as asked. He picks up a red velvet muffin for Melanie and a coffee for himself, then heads over to Basira’s suite. When he gets there, Melanie is already waiting at the door to let him in. “Thanks,” she says, plucking the pastry bag from his hands. She opens it up and inhales, sighing with satisfaction. “Oh, that’s good. Still warm, too.” 

“Georgie’s gotten you addicted too, hasn’t she?” Jon asks on their way up the stairs. 

“Mhm,” Melanie says, stuffing a chunk of muffin into her mouth. “I never used to get these, but now I can’t stop. I swear I’ll spend the entire rest of my meal plan on them.”

“Those aren’t even the best ones,” Jon complains.

“If this were my building, I’d kick you out for that,” says Melanie. “Who doesn’t like red velvet? You’re the only person I’ve ever met who likes pistachio muffins.” They reach the top of the stairs and head down the hall to Basira’s suite. Melanie doesn’t bother knocking before heading inside. Three of Basira’s suitemates are sitting in the lounge. Jon is familiar with none of them, except for one who he thinks is named Annabelle, but that doesn’t stop Melanie from continuing her rant. 

“I can understand banana nut, I can sympathize with blueberry, but the pistachio, Jon, really?” she asks. “That’s only one step above corn, and if your favorite Green Room muffins are the corn muffins, that’s just sad.”

Jon waves awkwardly to Basira’s suitemates as they pass by. Annabelle waves back.

Melanie kicks open Basira’s door. “Jon has bad taste in muffins,” she announces to Basira, who is sitting at her desk.

“So you’ve said,” she says, not turning around.

“Just wanted to reiterate.” Melanie hops up onto Basira’s bed. 

“How was work?” Basira asks, glancing over her shoulder. Jon climbs onto her bed next to Melanie and pulls his laptop out of his bag.

“It was all right,” he says. “Not… terrible. I was with Martin again today.”

“Ah. Still annoyed with him for not having two years of experience?”

“It’s not like that,” Jon says defensively. “There’s nothing wrong with him, I’m sure he’ll pick it up after a while. It’s not like I _dislike_ him or anything, I just—”

“You complained about him for an hour after last time,” says Melanie, clicking away at her computer.

“That was… I was having a bad day, all right? I’m not _mean_ to him. It’s just exhausting.” Jon stops and turns to look at her. “Wait, I’m not mean to him, am I?”

Melanie shrugs. “How should I know? I don’t have shifts with either of you.”

“I don’t think he’s said anything about it, so I’d say you’re in the clear,” says Basira.

“How do you know? You don’t have any shifts with him either,” Melanie says accusingly. “What, are you suddenly friends with him outside work?”

“No. But Georgie works with him, and if he’d said anything, she would’ve told you, and you would’ve told me,” Basira says calmly. “You can’t keep a secret to save your life.”

“Oh, that’s rich, coming from you,” says Melanie. “You literally outed Jon to me on our third shift together! We weren’t even friends then!”

“That’s different!” Basira argues. “He’s not closeted, and neither were you! The entire library staff is queer, that was completely justified on—”

“As much as I appreciate listening to the two of you gossip,” Jon interrupts. “I was planning on actually getting some work done?”

“You’re the one who brought up Martin,” says Melanie, raising her hands in surrender. “If you want my opinion, he probably doesn’t hate you. I haven’t seen any scathing _Watcher_ posts directed at you lately.”

“Aside from the ones she wrote herself,” Basira adds.

 _The Watcher_ is the university’s anonymous Facebook page, where the best—and more often, the worst—of the student body is displayed for all to see. Melanie reads it like it’s the morning paper. It really shouldn’t be used as a metric to judge one’s own popularity, but Jon has to admit, it’s a relief to know that no one’s fed up with him enough to start posting about him behind his back.

“I’d watch your attitude, though,” Melanie says. “You never know, Martin seems nice now, but you keep bitching at him and maybe—” 

“Yes, thank you Melanie,” Jon sighs. That’s just the encouragement he needed.

Maybe he should give Martin a second chance. It’s not as if Jon can just alter his personality, but next time, he’ll be careful not to snap too much. Martin will catch on eventually. Melanie’s first few weeks had been rough, too, after all, and she’d turned out fine. She and Jon had always stayed on good terms.

Actually, now that Jon thinks back on it, he’s pretty sure there had been a period where he’d been too harsh with her and she’d held a vicious grudge against him for weeks. 

Fortunately, Martin doesn’t seem to be the type for vicious grudges. Or, at least, Jon hopes he’s not.

***

Martin’s been at the library for nearly a month now, and it seems like he’s finally got the hang of things. He doesn’t have to ask Jon for reminders about the shelving system anymore, he’s got the catalogue down, and he’s certainly more patient when searching for misplaced books than Jon has ever been. 

Shelving with him is actually quite nice. They just chat and put books away, and it’s almost like working with Tim or Sasha. Sasha would have liked Martin. Tim is still complaining about her being gone, and Jon feels her absence every time he walks into the library, but it’s a comfort to know that she’d approve of her replacement.

Jon barely notices the time flying by. Eventually, his phone buzzes in his pocket, and a glance at the time reveals that their shift is almost over.

At the top of his screen is a notification from Georgie. Just as he starts to read it, another pops up, and another. She sounds absolutely livid. He winces reading through the texts. He can’t quite get the full picture through her mess of expletives and caps lock, but from the sound of it, something’s gone wrong with the research project she’d had planned for the summer.

“Everything all right?” Martin asks, sliding a book into place on the shelf.

“Not really,” Jon says, thumbing out a response. “You know Georgie, right?”

“Yeah! Had a shift with her yesterday. Is she okay?”

Jon grimaces. “I don’t think so. It sounds like she’s gotten some bad news.” They only have a few minutes left. He could get away with ducking out early if she needed it, and it sounds like she could use some company about now. “I might actually leave in a moment, it sounds like she needs someone to vent to,” he says. “As long as that’s all right with you, of course.”

“Yeah! Don’t worry about it. Actually,” Martin bends down and grabs a book from the lower section of the cart. He places it on the shelf and dusts off his hands. “That’s the last one, so we can both get out of here.”

“Oh, good.” Jon takes the cart and pulls it toward the elevator with one hand, still texting Georgie with the other. _I’m on my way,_ he says. _Give me five minutes to walk over?_

She doesn’t pause in her rant. He takes that as a go-ahead. 

Jon and Martin put the cart away. The next couple of student workers come in to take their place, then they head out together. Martin’s going to the dining hall, and Jon has to walk across the green to get to Georgie’s suite, so they end up walking in the same direction. Martin chats amicably about nothing while Jon tries to parse through Georgie’s messages. It sounds like her research project has been cancelled? But that wouldn’t make sense, it’s so sudden. 

“Oh, hey!” Martin says. “Look!” He points across the green. There’s a table set up near the campus center, piled high with baked goods. A poster advertising Flame, one of the campus dance groups, is attached to the front. “Looks like they’re doing a bake sale. Maybe you could take something to Georgie, if she’s upset?”

“That’s… actually not a bad idea,” says Jon. He reaches into his pocket, and his heart sinks. He swears under his breath. “I don’t have my wallet,” he says. “Must have left it in my room this morning.” 

“Aww, that’s too bad,” says Martin. He looks over at the table for a lingering moment. 

“Okay, wait here,” he says, and then he’s jogging across the green.

“Martin!” Jon calls after him. “It’s okay, you really don’t have to—”

It’s too late, he’s already nearly there. Jon hurries over after him, just in time to watch him hand over a few bills in exchange for a little bag. “Martin, you didn’t have to,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be fine.”

Martin shrugs. “Still! I thought it might be nice,” he says with a smile. “I, um—there’s one for you in there, too.”

“I’ll pay you back next time I see you,” Jon says, reluctantly taking the bag. 

Martin laughs. “It’s okay, Jon, really. It was like, four pounds. Maybe, er…” He goes a little pink. “I mean, you don’t have to, obviously, but you could just get me a coffee sometime, a-and we’ll call it even?”

“Deal.” Jon’s phone buzzes again. Georgie’s probably wondering where he is. 

Martin must notice, because he waves Jon along. “Go on, then,” he says. “Tell her hello from me, okay?”

“I will.”

It only takes him a few minutes to get to Georgie’s. Jon takes that time to look in the bag—there’s a cranberry scone and a brownie. Georgie’s more of a chocolate lover than Jon is, so he takes the scone for himself. 

He really had misjudged Martin. He’s quite nice. 

He can hear Georgie pacing around before he even knocks on her door. “Come in!” she yells from inside. Jon opens the door and steps inside. Georgie’s hair has come unpinned from its usual clips, and her face is flushed an angry red as she stalks across the room. “You have no idea what a day I’m having,” she says. Her eyes land on the bag in Jon’s hands. She stops walking. “What’s that?”

Jon hands it to her. “There was a bake sale. Martin says hello.”

Georgie takes the bag and looks inside. “This is for me?” she says, her expression softening. “Oh, he is just too much. Tell him thanks for me, yeah?” Jon nods.

Georgie brushes her bangs out of her eyes, looking slightly calmer. She takes a giant bite out of the brownie and says something that Jon can’t make out. 

“Sorry?” Jon says.

She swallows. “My summer funding application got rejected,” she informs him. “Which is absolute _bullshit,_ because I was basically told straight-up that it wouldn’t. Smirke has my back, and he _wants_ me working with him this summer, but the anthropology department’s in a right fucking state when it comes to organization, and apparently, I don’t demonstrate _sufficient financial need_ ,” she makes air quotes, “so I’m shit out of luck.”

“That’s really awful, I’m sorry,” Jon says. He ought to do something here—hug her, maybe? But that feels out of place. He settles for an awkward pat on the shoulder. Georgie smiles briefly. 

“Is there any way for you to appeal?” Jon asks. 

“Yeah.” Georgie takes another bite of brownie and chews contemplatively. “I’m going to, obviously. And if worst comes to worst, I can always apply for an internship, I still have months before most of the deadlines. I just thought I wouldn’t have to.” She sighs and flops down onto her bed. “The world is a cruel, cruel place, Jonathan,” she says.

“There are some nice things,” Jon says, crumpling up the pastry bag. He tosses it in the direction of Georgie’s rubbish bin. It hits the side and falls onto the floor.

“Not in the anthro department,” Georgie says darkly. “The worst part of it is that this is probably a decision from higher up—people just don’t get it! Nobody wants to fund the humanities, it’s bullshit. Especially since everyone in anthropology is so nice, I’ve never met a single professor I didn’t like—hell, I’m friends with most of them by now, I’ve had tea with Smirke, but we all just keep getting fucked over by the administration—”

Jon sits next to her and lets her go on. She gets up after a while and starts pacing again. Jon knows she’ll wear herself out eventually, though; he’s already queued up her calming-down Spotify playlist for when she does. 

“Thanks for listening to me go on about this,” says Georgie, once she gives herself a moment to breathe. “I would talk to Melanie about it, but…” She waves her hands. “You know how she is, she’d just get mad right along with me.”

“I’m happy to be your resident doormat whenever you need,” Jon says.

Georgie snorts. “You? A doormat? No, try again.”

“Sponge?” Jon suggests. “Just here to soak up your bad vibes?”

“Mmm… no,” Georgie says critically. “I think you’re more of a houseplant.”

“Why?”

“Because you can soak things up when you need to, but otherwise you just sit around and look pretty.”

“Oh,” Jon says dryly. “Thanks.”

Georgie laughs. “See, there you go! So prickly, you’ve got to be a cactus. We’ve solved it.” She smiles to herself for a moment, then puts her hands over her face. “Oh, God, I’ve wasted so much time today,” she says. “Rant over. Work time now. You in?”

“Sure.” Jon hits play on her playlist, and Georgie grins.

***

>   
>  **Dear Watcher,**  
>  God… there’s this guy who works at the library who is SO good-looking it hurts. Every time I talk to him I feel like I make a total idiot of myself, but he’s so pretty I can’t help it!! He just has a nice voice and nice hair and aaaaaagh, I’m a mess. I’ve talked to him like twice and I’m already crushing. Help!!!!!!!!!  
>  _Like . Comment . Share_
> 
> **Nikola Orsinov:** op is a simp  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Manuela Dominguez:** Damn the library got hoes now??  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Tim Stoker:** 😘😘  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Melanie King:** _Tim Stoker_ “average library worker has 3 hoes” factoid actually just statistical error. average library worker has 0 hoes. Hoes Tim, who lives in a frat house and & has over 10,000 hoes, is an outlier adn should not have been counted.  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Tim Stoker:** _Melanie King_ I fucking hate you  
>  _Like . Reply_  
> 

***

Jon has an itemized list of things he would do if he were able to travel back in time. The first is to see the premiere of a Shakespeare play. Second is to witness the first use of the telegraph. Third is to tell Horace to piss off and write better poetry.

Aside from Cicero, he’s the worst of the Roman poets, in Jon’s opinion. It’s nothing personal—well, maybe a bit—but his works are just too bloody difficult to translate. Jon’s been holed up in a study room for the past hour, rereading the same lines over and over and getting utterly nothing out of them. He resists the urge to bang his head against the table and lays it on his arms instead. There’s no way he’ll be finished with this by tomorrow. He’ll just have to accept it.

Outside the glass walls of the room, students are reading and working on their computers, probably being much more productive than he is. Jon sighs. He really should’ve done this earlier. 

He sits back up and inhales deeply. One more try. If he focuses, he can do it. He stares at the page, trying to sink back into the Latin.

A knock comes from the wall. He startles and lets out an embarrassing little yelp.

Martin is standing just outside the room. _Sorry,_ he mouths. He points at the door and gives a questioning thumbs up. Jon waves his hand, and Martin slips inside. “Sorry,” he says apologetically. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s all right,” says Jon. “What’re you up to?”

“Nothing much. I just came in to get some writing done, and I saw you here, so I thought I’d say hi. D’you mind if I stay?” 

If Jon is honest, he does mind. He doesn’t focus well with other people around, and since it’s Martin, he suspects his chances of finishing this translation are done for. But he can’t exactly say that. He sighs and says, “Go ahead. I probably won’t be here much longer anyway.”

“Oh. Um, okay.” It might be Jon’s imagination, but for a brief moment, Martin almost looks disappointed, but his face quickly brightens into a smile again. “I-I’m glad I caught you, then! Means I can take over this room after you leave.” He takes the chair across from Jon and opens up his laptop, putting in a pair of earbuds. 

Oh. Well, if he’s listening to music and not talking, maybe this won’t be so bad.

Jon returns to his poem. After ten minutes of staring at the page, the rest of the world quiets, and his brain is able to zone in on the general idea of the text. Not all of it makes sense, but he steadily makes his way through it, jotting down notes as he goes. 

Across from him, Martin works just as diligently. Jon tries not to watch him, but, well. He has to look _somewhere_ while he’s mentally parsing out Latin verbs. 

Martin’s a fast typer. Sometimes he’ll purse his lips and stop to think, adjusting his glasses, but aside from those rare moments, it’s nearly nonstop. Jon has to admire it—when he’s writing a paper, it feels like every paragraph has to be dragged out of him. Georgie’s described his aura while working as “a forcefield of grumpiness,” which, admittedly, sounds about right. 

Martin, on the other hand, sort of… softens, when he’s working. He’s quiet and self-contained, and every once in a while, a smile will flicker across his face. It catches Jon’s attention every time, but he never wants to interrupt and ask what’s so funny.

Eventually, Martin looks away from his screen to check his phone, and Jon asks, “What are you working on?”

“Oh! Nothing much, just a piece for my fiction writing class,” Martin says. “It’s supposed to be flash fiction, but it’s gotten a little out of hand.” 

Oh. That explains it, then; Jon’s not a fiction writer, but he can imagine it must be much more fun than writing essays.

“What about you?” Martin asks. He leans over to get a look at Jon's book, tilting his head so it’s not upside-down. “What’s that, Latin?”

Jon grimaces. “Yes, I have to translate this poem for class tomorrow.”

At this, Martin perks up. “It’s a poem?”

“Yes. I don’t know if you’re familiar with Roman poets at all—”

“I’m not.”

“But this one in particular is…” Jon makes a face. “Well, it’s not great.” Martin laughs. “I mean, I suppose it’s not _bad_ , it’s just cryptic and vague and… I don’t know. Latin poetry’s awful; the word order is utterly nonexistent, and they don’t use _esse_ , which is… it’s a mess, basically. Don’t try reading it unless you want a headache.”

“Noted,” Martin says. “I’m actually pretty into poetry, but I’m more of a fan of _the_ classics, not Classics-with-a-capital-C.”

Jon half-smiles. It’s not often he meets someone who knows the difference. “What authors?” he asks. 

“I don’t know, a little bit of everything? Mary Oliver, Keats, Pablo Neruda… I’ll read pretty much anything. I’ll take your advice and avoid the Romans, though.” Martin smiles. “It’s cool that you can read Latin.”

“I figured it would be a good idea to study at least one dead language,” Jon says with a shrug. 

“Yeah! For history and all, that must be useful.” Martin looks back at his computer, and Jon is once again made aware of the book sitting open beneath his forearm. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distract you,” he says quickly.

“N-no, it’s fine!” Martin says. “Don’t worry, seriously. I’m almost done with this.” He lowers the lid of his laptop. “I’m already way over the required wordcount anyway. I don’t really write long stuff that often, this one just caught me by surprise. I mostly write poetry, actually.” Martin pauses. “Um. Speaking of which, the writing club actually has a thing coming up soon… We’re hosting an open mic, and I was thinking I might do something for it. Would you… maybe want to come?”

Jon blinks. “Er… When is it?”

“Thursday at eight,” Martin says.

Jon opens up his calendar to check the date. His schedule reveals that he doesn’t have any conflicts, but… something about the idea sends a flare of anxiety through him. He’s never really spent time with Martin outside of work—except for now, of course—and he’s never been to an open mic, either. Would he even enjoy it? Probably not, if Martin’s performing and Jon has to sit by himself. Is performing the right word?

“I’ll see how much work I can get done that day,” Jon says. It’s a cop-out and he knows it, but at least it gives him time to think it over.

Martin’s smile lights up his entire face. “Great!” he says. “Awesome! I really hope you can make it.”

Well, shit. Now Jon’s going to feel like a dick if he doesn’t go.

What has he gotten himself into?

***

Jon very resolutely does not look at the clock as the afternoon wears on. He makes it all the way through the readings he’s scheduled in for today. He starts in on the ones for tomorrow. Tomorrow is Friday, so he hadn’t planned to do much, but he gets a head start on it anyway. He does not look at the clock.

He keeps his eyes off it until roughly 6:45. 

If he’s going to this thing, he’ll need to get ready quickly. Unless he can just go in what he’s already wearing? He has no idea if this is supposed to be a dressy event or not. He swivels his chair around to face the mirror on his wall. His reflection stares back at him in a faded t-shirt and cardigan. 

Something tells him he should change, but he has no idea what to change _into_. Does he even have anything suitable? Jon gets up and starts rifling through his closet, pushing back hanger after hanger of t-shirts, button downs, and jumpers. There’s a reason he doesn’t go to things like this—he doesn’t know the ins and outs, of what’s too try-hard and what’s disrespectfully casual. He barely has much dress sense to begin with.

Unlike his roommate, who is currently wearing a pair of pants that are more buckle than fabric, at least three layers of shredded black shirt, and rings on nearly every finger. Gerry’s sitting at his desk, typing away at his laptop. The faint sounds of metal music can be heard from his headphones.

Jon inhales deeply. 

“Gerry?” he asks. Gerry doesn’t respond. 

Right.

It’s always awkward trying to get his attention when he’s got his headphones on. Jon deliberates for a moment, waiting to see if Gerry will look up on his own, but he doesn’t. 

Jon scoots into his line of sight and waves a little. Gerry looks up, shifting his headphones off of one ear. There. 

“What’s up?” Gerry asks. 

“I just have a question. About… open mic nights?” Jon asks. 

Gerry raises his eyebrows ever so slightly. He taps a key on his computer and sits back. “Shoot,” he says. 

Jon glances down at his outfit. “What are you supposed to wear to them?”

“I mean, whatever you want is fine. Not like a three-piece, obviously, but you could get a little dressed up if you wanted. Depends on why you’re going.”

“Why am I going?” Jon asks. “W-why does that matter?”

“Well, it depends on the audience, doesn’t it? Are you going just for fun, or to see a friend, or?” Gerry asks. 

That’s a bit of a loaded question. Martin isn’t really a _friend_ , not yet, but maybe he could be. If Jon doesn’t make a fool of himself tonight, that is. 

“To see… someone,” Jon says. 

“Who?” Gerry asks. 

“Um… A coworker of mine. He’s an English major too, you might know him—Martin Blackwood?”

“Oh! I know Martin, yeah. Didn’t know you two worked together.” Gerry checks his computer screen. “Is the thing on Facebook?”

“The event? I don’t know, Martin invited me.”

“Ah.” Gerry smiles to himself. “Here, let me check.” He does some clicking, then nods. “Here we go. I don’t know how I didn’t hear about this, I guess I just wasn’t paying attention… Damn. I might actually go, too. I could text Michael.” He pulls out his phone. “Don’t worry,” he says, not looking up. “I won’t cramp your style once we’re there.”

“No, it’s fine,” Jon says automatically. “Don’t worry about it.” He turns to look in the mirror again. He should probably change. If everyone else shows up wearing something different and he hasn’t, then it’ll just be awkward. But then again, it’ll be even more awkward if he’s the only one dressed up.

Maybe he’ll just stay like this. 

When the time comes, Gerry heads out with him, and they walk across campus together. Jon wouldn’t say it out loud, but he’s grateful for the company; having even one person with him makes this whole thing a hell of a lot easier. 

The reading’s being held in the Underground, a student-run coffee shop beneath the Green Room. It’s cozy, with brick walls and dim lighting, its array of round tables all set around a small stage. There are already a few people sitting around, waiting for the event to begin. Jon is quick to spot Martin sitting at one of the tables near the stage. 

“I’ll see you later, then?” Gerry asks.

“Yeah, see you.” Jon nods to him, and goes over to join Martin.

“You know Gerry Delano?” Martin asks curiously. Jon slips into the chair across from him.

“We’re roommates,” he says.

“Really?” Martin says, looking no less intrigued. “Huh. That’s a story you’ll have to tell sometime. I just know him from class. We’re both English majors, so I see him around often enough. Never really talked to him outside of that, though. I was always too intimidated.”

Jon laughs. “He can be intimidating. He’s friendlier than he looks, though.”

“Yeah, I know. I did talk to him once after a QA meeting in my first semester, since he was the only other—well. I’m glad you both came! Especially you. Um. I was actually—”

“Hello everyone!” says a voice. A young man has taken the stage, holding a clipboard. “We’re about to get started, so if I could have you all quiet down, that’d be lovely! Our sign-up sheet’s right on the table over there, so if you feel like stepping onstage, you’re more than welcome.”

“Are you going to perform?” Jon asks Martin.

“Yeah, I already signed up,” Martin whispers back. “You could too, if you wanted.”

Jon grimaces. “I don’t think so. I’ll spare you.”

“What do you mean, spare me?” Martin nudges him. “Come on, you could totally read something. You’ve got the perfect voice for it.”

“All right!” says the guy onstage. “First up we have Jane Prentiss.”

Thank goodness. Jon doesn’t know how to convince Martin that he can’t perform at an open mic, and he definitely doesn’t know how to react to being told he has a nice voice, whatever that means. It does give him a pleasant little thrill though. It’s flattering, even if he doesn’t quite get it.

The girl who takes the stage is short and rather plain, with bangs that fall down over her eyes. An acoustic guitar is strapped to her torso. She sits in the stool at center stage, adjusts the mic stand to her height, and strums her fingers delicately across the guitar strings. 

Her voice is low and husky, but it carries a sweetness that resounds softly through the air. Jon doesn’t recognize the song she sings; it might be an original. He has to admit, he hadn’t had high hopes for this event—his only exposure to open mics is in the context of mockery, and he’d been under the impression that they were just pretentious posturing and not much else. This is really quite nice, though. Jane sings about belonging, and the kind of home you build, and by the time the last notes of the song ring out, Jon is thoroughly won over.

Jane takes her guitar and steps offstage, into the waiting arms of a girl who lifts her off her feet. “You did so good!” she squeals.

“That was really nice,” says Jon, watching as a blushing Jane is twirled around. 

“It was,” Martin says, a bit wistfully. “No idea how I’m supposed to follow that up.”

“It’s not a competition,” Jon says. “I’m sure you’ll do very well.”

Martin’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Thanks,” he says. “I hope so.”

Someone comes onstage to read a poem, then there’s another couple of songs, and then it’s Martin’s turn. “Break a leg,” Jon says as he steps up. 

Martin sits down on the stool and takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket. He clears his throat. 

_”We’re here for the time being, I answer to the query,”_ he reads. _”Just for a couple of years, we said, a dozen years back. Nothing is more permanent than the temporary.”_

Listening to Martin, Jon thinks he understands what would lead someone to compliment another’s voice. Martin’s voice is different when he’s reading aloud. Softer. Each line has a gentle weight, but it’s not too flowery, trying to shove the significance of it all into the listener’s face. It’s just quiet and frank, and something about that makes it all the more meaningful.

 _”We stash bones in the closet when we don’t have time to bury, stuff receipts in envelopes, file papers in a stack. Nothing is more permanent than the temporary,”_ Martin narrates. _”Twelve years now and we’re still eating off the ordinary. We left our wedding china behind, afraid that it might crack._

_”We’re here for the time being, we answer to the query. But nothing is more permanent than the temporary.”_

He folds the paper back up and sticks it back into his pocket. A silence falls over the room like a blanket as he comes to sit back down with Jon. “How was that?” he whispers. 

There aren’t words for it, really. Jon could try to describe it, but whatever he chose to say would sound strange; too much or not enough. The reading, the listening, each felt like a cautiously intimate act. To talk about it out in the open would be like spilling a secret.

“It was really good,” Jon whispers back. 

“Really?” Martin smiles, and the sounds of the rest of the world slowly filter back in. The announcer returns to the mic to announce the next performer, but Jon doesn’t bother paying attention; it’s nice, to see Martin so pleased with himself. He’s blushing a little. It would be hard to notice under the dim lighting, but it makes the tips of his ears go red, and it’s somehow satisfying to see him flustered. At least there’s proof that he knows other people recognize his talents.

“I mean it,” Jon says. “That was lovely. What was the poem?”

Martin ducks his head, but his smile widens. “It’s called _After A Greek Proverb,_ ” he says. “I dunno, I—I was trying to pick what to read, and I guess the title just reminded me of you. Since you’re a history major and all.”

“Really?” Jon says. He doesn’t know why that makes his cheeks grow warm. He hadn’t expected to be a factor in Martin’s preparations for this thing. That was… thoughtful of him. Especially since they don’t know each other very well yet. Jon had just assumed Martin had been trying to get more support for an indie event, inviting anybody who’d agree, but maybe he really had meant to invite Jon specifically. 

“Yeah,” Martin says, a note of shyness in his voice. “I’m glad you liked it. Maybe you could read one next time?”

Jon shakes his head, smiling. “Still a no. But I’d be happy to hear you read again.”

He doesn’t say it out of politeness. The performers have all been wonderful, and something about watching them with Martin makes it even better. If Martin invites him to something like this again, they could do it all over, and it wouldn’t get old. Maybe this could be a thing.

Maybe Martin could be his friend.

***

Jon wraps his jacket tighter around his shoulders. The weather is starting to warm up again, and he can even manage a short-sleeved shirt on sunny days, but the night air still gets chilly. He walks a little faster. It’s his own fault he’s out after dark—he’d been working on a paper all day and, like usual, had forgotten that eating was a thing that his body would eventually want to do. He’d barely made it to the dining hall before it closed.

This is undoubtedly not the last time this kind of thing will happen, but it’ll be more bearable once the seasons have solidly changed. 

Jon hops over the curb and hurries towards the door to his building. He swipes in and ducks inside, warmth rushing over him. That’s better. He makes his way up the stairs, and his phone buzzes in his pocket. 

_hey,_ says Gerry. _sorry for the short notice but would it be cool if i had the room for a while?_

Jon sighs and leans against the wall of the stairwell. _Sure,_ he types. _Just tell me when you’re done?_ No, that sounds weird. He doesn’t want to call any extra attention to whatever Gerry’s about to be up to. Fuck. What is he supposed to say? He deletes the second sentence and tries a few different wordings before settling on, _Just let me know when I can come back. Preferably before ten, I have a paper I need to work on._

He had intended to come back from dinner and start working on it immediately, but his laptop is in the room, and there’s no way he’s going back for it now. He’s walked in on Gerry and Michael making out before, and it was a supremely uncomfortable experience that he has no desire to repeat.

Instead, he texts Georgie. _What are you doing right now?_

Georgie is quick to respond. _Nothing much. Procrastinating on my anthro readings,_ she says. _Y?_

_Could I come over? My room’s… off-limits at the moment._

_Course u can!_ Georgie replies. _Daisy’s over as well, we’re playing cards against humanity. Just text when ur here and I’ll let u in._

Jon goes back down the stairs and into the night. Georgie’s building isn’t far from his, so it only takes him a few minutes to walk over. On his way up the steps, someone else crosses his path and goes to swipe in; he catches the door behind them before it closes and slips inside.

Georgie’s suite is on the third floor, about halfway down the hall. The door is decorated with each of her suitemates’ names and a smattering of emoji stickers, which Jon can only assume came from Tim. He knocks, and the door swings open at once. “Hey,” says Daisy. “Sexiled again, huh?”

Jon just sighs and pushes his way in. Daisy laughs. Georgie glances up from the couch, giving Jon a once-over. “Jon,” she says patiently. “You did it again, didn’t you?”

Jon freezes, very conscious of the fact that he isn’t carrying anything. “Do what?” he asks.

“Decided that you can’t be within five hundred feet of your room for the next six hours. You know you can ask to go in and get your things, right?”

“I—yes,” Jon says. “Theoretically, I could do that. But I don’t want to.” He takes a seat on the couch beside her. Tim is sitting in one of the armchairs, eyes glued to his phone.

“That might be the wiser choice,” he says. “I know I wouldn’t want to be anywhere near it when Georgie and Melanie are—”

“Oh, piss off,” says Georgie. “Who’s the card czar?”

“Me,” says Daisy, coming to sit down in the other armchair. She picks out seven cards and hands them to Jon, then picks a black one and reads it out loud: “Maybe she’s born with it. Maybe it’s—”

“Have you seen _The Watcher_ lately?” Tim interrupts. 

“Tim,” Georgie complains. “We’re in the middle of a game!”

“No, look at this!” Tim shoves his phone into her face. “Tell me this isn’t about me, come on!”

Georgie takes his phone and examines it. It only takes a half second for her to sigh and hand it back. “You do know there’s more than one guy who works at the library, right?” she asks.

“More than one _Watcher_ -worthy guy, though?” Tim asks, grinning. “No offense to Jon. Or Martin, I guess.”

Daisy throws down her cards. “Tell me you didn’t get another bloody secret admirer.”

“Did indeed! Listen to this: ‘there’s this guy who works at the library who’s _so_ good-looking it hurts, he’s got nice hair, I’ve talked to him once and I’m already crushing.’ That’s got to be me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Georgie informs him. “Watch, it’s probably about Martin. Would serve you right.”

“Can’t be,” Tim says confidently.

“And why is that?” Daisy asks. 

Tim leans forward, holding out his hands like he’s making a presentation. Georgie groans. “No, listen!” Tim says, laughing. “If it were about Martin, it’d talk about how sweet he is. There’d be at least one mention of freckles, guaranteed. He’s cute and all, but he doesn’t have the power to get someone this starstruck!”

Jon frowns. “Why?” Tim just winks at him. 

“Speaking of Martin,” Georgie says, “How many of us actually work with him? I know Jon does, Tim does—Daisy, have you even met him yet?” Daisy shakes her head. “We should invite him over, then! It’s already a bit of a library party, why not?” 

“Yes,” Tim says immediately. “Yes. I need this. I’ll bet you a tenner he gets flustered on the first card.”

“Oh, don’t be mean,” Georgie says, swatting at his arm.

Tim grins widely. “I’m not! I’m just saying—don’t you want to hear dear, sweet Martin read out the ‘high-tech collection of sex toys’ card? Just a little bit?” Daisy snickers. 

“I won’t text him at all!” Georgie says.

“Fine, I’ll do it myself!” says Tim. He pulls out his phone. “Dear Martin,” he narrates as he types. “The library staff and I are hosting a sensational game of Cards Against Humanity. Care to join? We have crisps. Signed, Tim.” 

“Wait, we have crisps?” says Georgie. “I thought Helen ate the last of them.”

“We do not have crisps,” Tim amends. “But it’s still great fun. Signed, Tim.” 

They keep playing while they wait for a response. After about twenty minutes, Tim’s phone dings. He checks it and pumps his fist in the air. “Martin’s on his way!” he cheers. 

“How far away is he?” Georgie asks. 

“I’ll ask,” says Tim, already typing out the question. After a few seconds, he says, “Not far. He’s on the green.”

“I’ll go downstairs, then. Somebody’s going to need to let him in when he gets here.” Georgie scurries downstairs. She returns after a few minutes, a sheepish-looking Martin trailing after her.

“Hi,” he says. 

“Hi!” says Melanie. “Take a seat anywhere you’ll fit, there’s plenty of room.” Jon scoots over, leaving room at the end of the couch. Martin sits down beside him. 

“Hi,” says Daisy, who’s lounging sideways across her armchair. “I don’t think we’ve actually met, I’m Daisy. I’m Basira’s girlfriend—do you know Basira?”

“Not yet, but I’ve heard about her,” Martin says, smiling. 

“Ah, yeah. I always forget who’s scheduled with who. You’ll probably meet her soon. Once you’re part of this group, you can’t really escape.”

“It’s true,” Georgie chimes in, curling up in Melanie’s lap. “I started at the library in my second year, and by the end of it I’d forgotten I ever had other friends.”

“That wasn’t because of us, that was because you got a girlfriend!” says Tim, throwing a stray card at her. “You forgot _everyone_ else.” Georgie giggles. 

“Point is, welcome to the crew,” Daisy finishes. “It’s good to meet you.”

“Thanks,” says Martin. His ears go a little pink. 

“Course,” says Tim. “Now, on with the cards!” He deals Martin in, and just like that, he’s part of the game. It’s Melanie’s turn to judge. She collects everyone’s cards and reads them out one by one.

“Okay, I’ve got to go with ‘powerful thighs,’” she says. “Who played ‘praying the gay away?’ No homophobia in our edgy card game, that’s against the rules!”

“Yeah, if we were praying the gay away, then we’d all have to leave!” says Tim, grinning. Georgie wraps her arms around Melanie’s neck and sticks her tongue out.

“Maybe not all,” Daisy corrects him. “Sorry, Martin. We should probably adjust the blanket statements now, yeah?”

Martin flushes. “N-no, it’s okay. I-I mean, there’s no need, it still applies.”

“Called it!” says Tim, pumping his fist triumphantly.

“Don’t be rude,” Georgie scolds.

“Oh, come on,” Melanie scoffs. “Tell me you’re not relieved you don’t have to deal with having a cishet on staff.”

“Yeah, well. I’m neither of those things, so, no need to worry,” Martin says. He’s smiling, but Jon doesn’t miss the way he tenses up every so slightly. 

“Welcome to the club, then!” says Tim. “We’re the QA, but cooler. And at least 85% more attractive. Oh, wait—pronoun check. You use he/him, right?” Martin nods, and Jon feels him relax again. “Cool. That reminds me, we should add you to the group chat. I mean, now that we know the constant gay jokes won’t be weird?”

“We were going to add you anyway,” Jon assures Martin. “Tim just kept forgetting.”

“Sure, sure.” Tim pulls out his phone. “Now you get to see the ragingly unprofessional side of all of us,” he says, tapping at the screen. “Our working relationships will never be the same.”

“I think I can handle that,” says Martin. 

It’s funny. This might be his first time sitting with all of them together—or at least most of them—but he falls into the group so naturally, it’s like he’s always been there. Like there was always an empty space in the puzzle waiting for him to fit right in.

Jon’s glad they’ve finally found him.

***

>   
>  **Dear Watcher,**  
>  Does Melanie King go here??? As in, Melanie King from Ghost Hunt UK?? I swear I saw her in the mail room the other day... If so, does anyone know if she’s single lol  
>  _Like . Comment . Share_
> 
> **Oliver Banks:** i feel like we get a new internet celebrity every other day… petition to cull the population before they start multiplying  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Nikola Orsinov:** _Oliver Banks_ wait who else do we have??  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Oliver Banks:** _Nikola Orsinov_ im 99% sure stoker.face from tiktok is in my history lecture  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Nikola Orsinov:** _Oliver Banks_ real shit?? when & where 😳😳  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Georgie Barker:** Melanie does go here! But she’s taken, sorry <3  
>  _Like . Reply_  
> 

***

The stacks are Jon’s favorite part of the library. They have a homey atmosphere to them. It’s something about the enclosed spaces between the aisles, or maybe the faint, dusty smell of books that clings to the shelves. 

A few of his coworkers find shelving dreadfully dull, especially when they’re alone, but Jon really doesn’t mind. The repetitive actions are soothing. They give him a chance to listen to podcasts, or just get lost in thought. Plus, shelving is a clear-cut task: you bring the books up to the stacks, find their proper location, slot them all into place, and you’re done. There’s always a satisfying conclusion. 

It’s just quiet, calm, and— 

“Knock knock,” Martin says cheerfully. Jon nearly drops the book he’s holding. He curses under his breath and fumbles to pause his podcast.

“Martin,” he says, popping one earbud out. “You were gone for a while, what held you up? Did you end up finding that book?”

“Not… really?” Martin says, wincing. “I checked in the system and it was definitely in, but it wasn’t in the proper place and I’d already looked in the cart, so I just handed the job off to Rosie. Someone probably put it in the wrong spot.”

“Happens more often than you’d think,” Jon says with a sigh. “You want to help me finish these?”

“Yeah! Sorry for leaving you to do it by yourself.” 

“No need. I’m almost done anyway.”

“Yeah, exactly.” Martin smiles. He takes the other side of the cart and starts pulling books off. “What were you listening to?”

“Oh, nothing much, just a podcast. I like listening to them when I’m working on my own.” Jon takes off his earbuds and wraps them into a loop. 

Martin waves his hands. “No, no! Don’t stop because of me!” he says. “You’re free to listen to whatever you’d like, I don’t mind.”

Jon pauses. He likes talking while he works, but he will admit, he does enjoy his listening time. “Are you… sure?” he says, uncertain.

“Yeah, it’s fine! I like a little quiet, too. Plus,” Martin laughs, “shelving with you and not talking is still better than shelving with Tim and talking too much.”

“Oh, God. Did he try and get you in one of his videos?” Jon asks, checking the label on a book.

“Yep. I didn’t really get what I was supposed to be doing, but I guess it worked well enough for him anyway. I’m pretty sure he’s been filming me when I’m not looking.”

Jon scowls. “He really ought to stop doing that. I can have a word with him, I’m sorry you had to—”

Martin stifles a laugh. Jon gives him a questioning look. Martin tries to keep a straight face, but he just ends up cracking up. “He’s got a fair few of you, you know,” he says, giggling. “And I—I know it makes me a hypocrite when I tell him not to sneak the camera on me, but oh my God, they’re actually kind of hilarious? No offense, obviously. You just… You make the same face in every single one, it’s—”

“I asked him to delete those,” Jon mutters, pushing a book into place. “Good to know they’re still out there where the whole world can see them. How many followers has he got now? Sixteen thousand?”

Martin sobers up. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t be laughing, I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I don’t actually mind all that much. I can appreciate the humor, and I know he gets a lot of fun out of it. It’s just strange to think about people talking about me, o-or seeing me when they don’t actually know anything about me.” Jon wheels the cart further down the aisle, Martin trailing after.

“It’s a good thing he’s the campus star and not you, then,” Martin jokes. “Seems like people are always talking about him.”

“They are, it’s ridiculous,” says Jon, allowing himself a smile. “There are a few people who come into the library just to flirt with him. I never noticed it, Georgie had to tell me, but apparently there was a girl last year who’d be in every few weeks, asking about books that didn’t exist.”

“Good lord. That’s…” Martin crinkles his nose. “I mean, he’s _attractive,_ sure, but all that _effort?_ ” 

“I know! I’m half-convinced he pays them off just so he can build a reputation,” Jon laughs. “Do you read _The Watcher?_ ”

“Yeah,” says Martin. He takes a book and checks the label, moving past Jon so he can pop it onto the shelf. “More than I should, honestly, I always get distracted from my work. Why, does he have a cult following there, too?”

“A bit. He gets a secret admirer every once in a while. There was one a few weeks ago, someone talking about how they couldn’t even talk to the library’s resident hot guy without making a fool of themselves.” Jon smiles to himself as he takes out a few books, moving down the shelf to put them all in order. 

“O-oh,” Martin says. Jon glances up, and maybe it’s the lighting in the stacks, but Martin looks distinctly redder than he had been a second ago. “That’s… yeah, that’s Tim all right! Whoever wrote that must have it pretty bad, huh?”

“Hopefully not,” Jon grimaces. “Then he’d just have one more thing to gloat over.”

Martin laughs, his voice a little higher-pitched than normal. “Yeah, that’s true. Let’s just hope it wasn’t for him, then.” He pulls out his phone. “Oh, wow! Look at that, our shift’s almost up. D-do you reckon we should take this thing downstairs, then?”

Jon checks his phone. Martin’s right—the time has somehow flown by while Jon wasn’t paying attention, and there’s only a few minutes left until they’re out. “Might as well,” he says. 

“Thank God. Let’s go, I’m starving,” Martin says in a rush, grabbing one end of the cart and pulling it down towards the elevator. 

“You know you can bring food into the library, right?” Jon asks, raising one eyebrow. “As long as it’s not near the computers—”

“Okay, I know that I can _hypothetically,_ but they never let us back in sixth form and it’s just wired into my brain now. Can’t do it.” 

“Martin, you really shouldn’t skip lunch for work.”

“Not skipping,” Martin says delicately, drawing the cart to a halt in front of the elevator. “Just… delaying.”

“It’s already one o’clock,” Jon points out. He pushes the button for the first floor.

“So? That’s a perfectly reasonable lunchtime.” The elevator dings, and the doors slide open. Martin goes in first, and Jon pushes the cart after him. “You’re one to talk, anyway,” says Martin. “I’ve heard the talk about Jon Sims and his terrible self-care practices. Have you eaten today?”

“Of course I have,” says Jon, almost insulted. He’d gone to the dining hall that morning for toast and a coffee. “Who’s telling you this stuff? That’s—”

Wait. Was that coffee today, or is he just remembering yesterday’s breakfast? 

Shit.

Martin rolls his eyes. “Just come with me,” he says. “We can eat together.”

***

Somehow, this becomes a routine. After work on Tuesdays, Jon and Martin head out of the library, walk across the main green to the dining hall, and get lunch. Sometimes Jon will text the library group chat and see if anyone else wants to come along, but more often than not, they’re alone, and that suits Jon just fine. Even when it’s just the two of them, it feels like there’s never enough time to talk about everything they want to. There’s always more to learn about Martin. 

What Jon does learn is this: Martin likes photography as well as poetry, though he hasn’t had much time for it lately. He knits—the blue scarf he wears on cold days is handmade. He has a lot of thoughts about the Brontë sisters. That’s a topic that gets him really rambling, but surprisingly enough, Jon doesn’t mind anymore. It’s nice to hear Martin talk. Even when Jon has no idea what he’s on about, it’s almost endearing, the way his voice picks up and he gets more animated, waving his hands around as he’s referencing old books Jon’s never read.

Between the two of them, Martin’s definitely got the short end of the stick. Jon’s taking a class on science in colonial America, and whenever Martin asks him how it’s going, he ends up talking his ear off—he always tries to hold back his history tangents, but God, the class is just so _interesting,_ he can’t help it. He might write his thesis about the history of technology next year, though he hasn’t decided what period or region to base it on. 

Martin grins. “That’s really cool,” he says. Jon’s used to Tim and Georgie placating him with similar sentiments, anything to get him to shut up about the invention of the printing press, road-building methods in colonial Massachusetts, or whatever his latest interest of the week is, but it sounds genuine coming from Martin.

“Not really,” Jon says with a half-smile. “It’s not exactly being a published author, now, is it?”

“Okay, I’ve been published _once_ , Jon, it was really nothing to brag about—and yeah. It is cool. That’s amazing, actually, that you know so much about this. I’ve never gone that in-depth with anything.” 

“That’s a lie,” Jon says, pointing his spoon at Martin. “You know more about literature than anyone has a right to.”

Martin blushes faintly. “I just like it,” he says. “It’s not like I’ve gone out of my way to build up my knowledge on it. I just think it’s cool, the way people have always been telling stories and keeping them alive, ever since—oh, you’ve heard me say this all before, I won’t bore you.” 

“You majored in it,” Jon points out. “I think that counts as deliberately building up your knowledge.”

“Okay, but that’s just… Ugh.” Martin laughs, resting his chin on his hand. “I dunno, it’s different from you.”

“I don’t think it’s that different at all,” says Jon.

“You wouldn’t. You just don’t want to admit how intelligent you are.”

Jon blinks. “You’re joking.”

“I’m not,” says Martin. “I mean it. You’re just one of those people, you know? Where, like…” He clears his throat, looking away. “You know. You hear someone who’s really smart talk about their passions, and it’s just nice to listen to, ‘cause you can hear how much they’ve put into it.” 

“I…” Jon’s face heats up. He takes a drink of water so he doesn’t have to respond right away. “I-I just care about history,” he says. “It’s nothing special, really.” Lord. He isn’t used to being casually referred to as intelligent. Pretentious, yes. Insufferably academic, yes. But smart? Stated so matter-of-factly, as if it should be obvious?

“Am I interrupting something?” says a voice.

Jon startles. Daisy is standing right beside them, a plate in her hands. “I saw your text,” she says. “Thought I’d come and say hello before class.” She looks between Jon and Martin, eyebrows raised ever so slightly. “But, you know, if you’re busy…”

“N-no, we’re fine,” Martin stammers. “Sit down, please!”

Jon can only nod. His heart is still jumping from her unexpected appearance, and his face burns. He shouldn’t be this flustered; they’re not doing anything out of the ordinary. They’re just having lunch. But for some reason, it still feels like he’s been caught red-handed, and when Daisy sits down, Jon once again resorts to sipping from his water glass so he doesn’t have to pull a coherent sentence from his racing thoughts.

“I can’t stay long,” Daisy says once she’s sat next to Martin. “I really should be on my way out, actually, but I did want to ask—Martin, have you written anything lately?” 

Martin’s face lights up. “Yeah, actually! Here—” He reaches down into his bag and pulls out one of his notebooks. He flips through to a specific page and shows it to Daisy. “I just reached the halfway mark in this book the other day. It took me ages to get through the first quarter, but I’ve been filling it really fast lately.” He smiles to himself as he drops it back onto the floor beside his backpack. 

“Aw, that’s great. You going to let us read it someday?” Daisy takes a bite of her food, smirking at Martin. 

“Ah—m-maybe,” Martin says. “We’ll see. I can look through it later and see if there’s anything I’d be okay sharing. Actually, I should make a reminder for that now, I’ll forget otherwise.” He takes out his phone.

His eyes fly open, and he nearly drops it. “Shit!” he says. “Oh fuck, I totally lost track of the time, I’m late for class!”

“Go!” Daisy says at once. “Get going, go on!”

“I’m going!” Martin jumps up and throws his backpack over his shoulders. “Take care! I’ll see you two—”

“Go!” Jon and Daisy say in unison.

Martin smiles briefly, and then he’s gone, darting out of the dining hall. Daisy rolls her eyes. “That boy,” she says. “Did you get him talking about his Pinterest boards or something?”

“No, we were just talking about my class again,” Jon says sheepishly. 

“What, the one with Dekker?”

“Yeah.”

Daisy grins. “You like him, huh?”

“Dekker? Of course, he’s brilliant.”

“Uh-huh,” Daisy drawls. “That’s what I meant, sure.” She pulls her phone out of her pocket. “This is probably my cue to leave, too, it’s getting late. But if you—oh.” She frowns and leans over, momentarily vanishing beneath the table. She straightens up again and holds up Martin’s notebook. “He left this.”

Jon holds out his hand. “I can hold onto it for now. I’ll probably see him again on Thursday.”

“Right you are.” Daisy hands it over. “Take good care of it now, yeah?” She stuffs one last bite of potato into her mouth and piles her silverware onto her plate. “I’ll see you around, Jon.” 

She grabs her backpack, and Jon waves as she walks away.

Martin’s notebook sits on the table, staring innocently up at him with its soft leather cover. Jon’s never read any of what’s inside, and he can’t deny, he’s curious. 

But Martin had just expressed his discomfort with others reading his work, so Jon will just have to stay that way. 

He tucks the notebook into his own backpack, and resolves not to think of it again.

***

It’s strange. Jon has always liked his work at the library—it’s a nice, quiet environment, and it allows him to see his friends regularly. He wouldn’t have chosen this job if he didn’t enjoy it, but nowadays, it’s become something he actively looks forward to. When he checks his calendar Monday night and sees his shift scheduled for the next morning, his heart lightens, and he finds himself excited for Tuesday.

When Tuesday’s shift arrives, though, so does a text from Martin.

 _Hey Jon,_ it says. _I’m losing my mind a bit. I think I’m going to have to skive off work today, I’ve got a mountain of work to do and I seriously don’t think I can handle losing the hours. Would that be okay with you? I don’t want to leave you by yourself :(_

Jon slumps back against his chair. That’s… unfortunate. He can get the work done just fine by himself; the student workers aren’t the only library employees, and with the rest of the staff he should be fine. It shouldn’t be a disappointment. But he will admit, he does enjoy working with Martin, and he only gets to do so once a week.

Martin’s well-being is the most important thing, though.

 _Sure,_ Jon texts back. _I’ll tell Rosie you say hello and you’re sorry you couldn’t be here. I hope you’re able to finish everything you need to._

Martin’s reply comes swiftly: _Thanks! I hope so too :)_

Jon’s day isn’t as much fun without Martin. He does some shelving, some cataloguing, helps a couple of students find books, and generally does a poor job keeping his mind off of what he’s missing. Without someone to talk to, it’s easy to get lost in thought, and his thoughts always seem to turn back to Martin. It’s not like him to let on that he’s stressed. He’ll complain about his classes in a lighthearted sort of way, but in all the time Jon’s known him, he always seems to have kept his head above water. He’s more likely to take on other people’s worries than talk about his own.

It’s a shame, really. He works hard; he deserves to be cared for as well. 

After Jon swipes out from the library, he starts walking across the quad. He intends to head back to his room and get some work done, but instead, his feet carry him toward the Green Room. He ends up with a pastry bag in his hand, wandering across campus. He doesn’t know where he’s going. He doesn’t bother wondering—not until he’s standing right in front of Martin’s building, and the pieces click into place. 

This is where his feet can take him no further. Jon only knows which residence hall Martin lives in from hearing him say it in passing—he has no idea which room he’s looking for. 

_What’s your room number?_ he texts Martin. Someone comes out the door, and Jon catches it in time to let himself in. 

_309, why?_ Martin asks.

 _Just thought I’d stop and check in,_ Jon says. _It seems like you had a lot on your plate earlier. I brought a muffin?_

 _What kind?_ Martin asks immediately.

 _Banana nut,_ Jon replies. _I hope that’s all right, it was all they had left._ This building has an elevator, thank goodness. He presses the button for the third floor. 

_Omg, those are my favorites!! Do you need to be let in?_

_No, I’m on my way up. See you in a moment._

Jon rides up the elevator in silence and wanders down the hall until he comes across room 309. He knocks, and the door opens at once. “Hey!” Martin says. His voice is cheery enough that Jon almost walks right in, but then he gets a good look at Martin’s face and does a double take.

He’s smiling, but it’s the kind of smile that’s plastered over deep exhaustion. There are massive dark circles beneath his eyes, and the barest trace of stubble at his jaw. Jon’s pretty sure he’s wearing his pajamas. 

“Are you all right?” he asks. 

“Been better,” Martin says with a forced brightness. “Haven’t left the room all day, but it’s all right. I’m nearly caught up now.”

“Oh—um. I don’t want to hold you up, I’m sorry.” Jon holds out his pastry bag. “I-I just thought—I thought you must have been really buried if you decided to call off work, so I should come and check in.”

Martin winces. “Yeah. I’m really sorry about that, I—”

“No! I didn’t mean it like that. It was fine, I was just…” _Worried,_ Jon doesn’t say. “Wondering what had happened.”

“Nothing much, really. Just bad time management and an unfortunate case of midterms colliding. Plus…” Martin winces, and when he speaks again, his voice is low and rushed. “I might have fucked up and forgot to take my T shot last week, and my body is not happy about it. At all.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jon says with a wince. “Gerry’s done that a few times, it sounds awful.”

“Yeah, it’s not the most fun,” Martin admits. “But I should be back on track now.”

He takes the pastry bag from Jon and sticks his nose into it, inhaling deeply. He sighs dreamily. “Oh, that’s lovely.” He backs into his room, taking a seat at his desk. Jon lingers in the doorway.

“Well? You coming in?” Martin asks. He pulls out his muffin and carefully splits it in half. 

“I don’t want to distract you,” says Jon, uncertain.

Martin waves his hand. “Don’t worry about it. I’m almost done, and I could use a break anyway. It’s been a while since I’ve seen another human being.” He grins, and it’s genuine this time. Jon slips inside.

The interior of Martin’s room is exactly what he would’ve expected. There are string lights and polaroids hung across the wall, and his bed is covered in a knit woolen blanket. A couple of succulents sit on the windowsill. It’s simple, but with a clear aesthetic in mind—Jon can’t help but smile. It really is an exact reflection of Martin’s personality. 

He looks around for a place to sit, but Martin has taken the only chair, so Jon sits down on the floor. Martin raises his eyebrows. “You can just sit on the bed, you know,” he says, amused.

“I’m all right here,” Jon says. He sits on Georgie’s bed, and Melanie’s when she lets him, but he doesn’t know Martin that well yet. That’s where he _sleeps_. Even if Martin says it’s fine, Jon would feel awkward about dipping into that kind of space so soon, so casually. 

“If you’re sure. It’s probably for the best, you won’t get crumbs all over the sheets this way.” Martin holds out half of the muffin to him.

“You don’t have to share,” Jon says, pushing his hand back. “I brought that for you.” Martin deserves that much; he’s brought Jon tea enough times during slow shifts. And if Martin hasn’t left his room all day, he’s probably starving.

As if he can read Jon’s mind, Martin laughs. “Don’t worry, I’ve been eating,” he says. “I’m not _that_ dedicated. I’ve got enough ramen and stuff in here to keep myself going. Besides, what kind of friend would I be if I didn’t share?” He holds out the muffin once more. Jon takes it gingerly. 

Friends. That really is what they are now, isn’t it?

“Go on,” Martin encourages him. Jon takes a bite. Something about sharing it with Martin—or maybe just the way Martin smiles—makes it taste extra sweet. 

It just might be the best muffin Jon’s ever tasted.

***

Jon pauses, tapping his fingers against his keyboard, light enough that none of the keys are pressed. The flow of this paragraph is a bit off. Maybe if he swapped the places of the second and third sentences?

Something small hits him in the neck and falls to the floor. Jon leans over to pick it up. It’s a small piece of paper, wadded into a ball. He furrows his brow. Where— 

“Hey,” says Gerry.

Jon glances up. Gerry’s sitting on his bed, leaning back against the wall with his electric guitar in his lap. He’s been practicing for the past hour or so—without the amp, of course, so the sound is quiet enough that Jon can easily tune it out. 

“How d’you feel about punk music?” Gerry asks.

Jon blinks. “I… don’t really have an opinion?” He’s listened to a bit, mostly back in secondary school, but it was never a solid favorite of his. He doesn’t really listen to much music nowadays. He likes The Mountain Goats, and he listens to whatever songs Georgie decides to send him on a given day, but he could barely tell you their names, much less what genres they fit into.

“Hm.” Gerry slides off his bed and starts packing his guitar back into its case. “Well, my band has a show on Saturday. You should come by, if you want. Bring Martin.” 

“Martin?” Jon asks. He can’t think of why—oh. “Is that something he’s into?” Jon has to admit, he wouldn’t have predicted that, but people can surprise you.

Gerry laughs. “Not at all. At least, not that I know of. I just want to get as many people as possible to the show. Bring all your friends, if you’d like.”

“I… all right. I think I know someone who might be interested.” Jon can’t picture Martin at a punk show, but Melanie might be quite excited at an invitation, and if Melanie goes, Georgie will want to go as well. Maybe Martin might be interested after all, if it’s presented as a group outing.

Jon pulls out his phone and opens the library staff group chat. _So,_ he types. _Hypothetically, if you all were presented with an opportunity to go to a punk show. What would you do?_

In the end, it’s just as he predicted. Basira and Daisy politely decline, and Tim less-politely declines, but Jon manages to get a decently-sized group together. They meet up on Saturday night and take a cab out to the venue together. 

“So, what exactly are we doing?” Martin asks, his side squished up against Jon. “Something about a punk show?”

“Yep. We know the guitarist for the band that’s playing, so Jon’s coming out of a sense of obligation and I’m coming because I like good music,” Melanie says brusquely. Martin nods, as if this explains everything. 

Once they get out of the cab, it’s apparent how much they all stand out. A small line has already formed outside the venue, and Melanie is the only one who looks like she belongs there. Her ordinary style is punk enough that she blends right in, ripped fishnets and all. Georgie’s made a good effort, with black lipstick and combat boots that definitely belong to Melanie, but Jon and Martin are the odd ones out.

Jon sticks close to Martin as they wait to be let in. “Thanks for inviting me,” Martin says. “I would’ve had a really boring Saturday otherwise.”

“Of course!” Georgie pipes up from behind them. “You’re one of us, Martin, you’ll get dragged to all the functions now.”

Martin blushes and opens his mouth to reply, but then the people in front of them step inside, and they’re free to enter. Martin ducks inside quickly. Georgie giggles. “I love Martin,” she says fondly. “Let’s keep him forever.”

“Let’s hope tonight doesn’t scare him away,” Melanie says with a grin.

“Oh, don’t even,” replies Georgie, and shoves her inside. 

Inside, the bar is dim. The stage hasn’t been set up except for a couple of speakers, and blue lights shine down from overhead, glowing dully on the hardwood floor. Some kind of rock playlist is playing through the speakers, not quite loud enough to fill the entire room. In the wide open space before the stage, people are milling about, sipping drinks or chatting against the wall. 

“You’d better stand towards the back,” Melanie advises Jon. “You won’t want to be in the middle if it’s a good crowd.”

“What do you mean, if it’s a good crowd?” Martin asks. 

Melanie rolls her eyes. “You ever been to a punk show, Martin?” He shakes his head. “Right. Well, the easiest way to tell if it’s any good is if there’s a pit or not. If there is, everyone on the floor is going to be taking home a few fresh bruises. If that doesn’t sound like a good time to you, just stand to the back, and you’ll be fine.”

Martin furrows his brow, but Melanie’s already swept Georgie away to the bar. Martin sighs, and wanders over to the nearest pillar, off to the side of the open floor. Jon follows. “You’re not going to—to go in and start punching people or whatever, are you?” Martin asks him, leaning against the pillar. 

Jon smiles. “No. Melanie’s never been able to drag me to one of these before.”

“Then why come today?” Martin says curiously. 

Jon pauses. There isn’t really a way to explain this that doesn’t make it sound weird, given how out of character this whole venture is for him. 

_Because Gerry told me to invite you_ hardly seems like enough of a reason. Truth be told, he hadn’t really thought about it. It had seemed like a good idea, and an opportunity to spend some time with Martin, if nothing else. Along with the rest of his friends, of course.

He shrugs. “My roommate—Gerry, you know him—it’s his band,” he says. “I thought it might be interesting. Plus, Gerry asked me to bring people, and he doesn’t ask favors often.”

“That sounds about right.” Martin cranes his neck to look across the room. “Where did Georgie and Melanie go? To get drinks?”

“I’d assume so,” says Jon. Sure enough, he looks over his shoulder, and Georgie is heading over with a cup in her hand.

“What did I miss!” she says, sliding into place beside Jon. 

“Not much,” says Jon. “Just talking about our host.” 

“Oh, you mean Gerry?” asks Melanie, coming to throw her arm around Georgie. “Yeah, he’s cool. I think I’ve actually seen this band a few times. Ex Altiora, right?” She looks over at the stage, where a couple of guys are bringing out drums and adjusting the mic stands. Jon follows her gaze. Sure enough, the name _Ex Altiora_ is emblazoned across the kick drum.

“Oh, hey!” she says suddenly. She breaks away from Georgie and waves one arm in the air. “Hey, Michael!”

Across the room, a familiar head of blond curls perks up. Michael’s easy to pick out in a crowd—for starters, he’s a good twelve centimeters taller than average, and if that wasn’t enough, he’s usually wearing bright enough colors to make himself known. He bounces over to their side of the room. “Hello!” he says. “Jon, you’re here! Gerry wasn’t sure if you’d make it.”

Jon shrugs. “I’m trying something new.”

“What, no hello for me?” Melanie asks, feigning annoyance.

“Hold on, how do you two know each other?” Jon asks.

“Like I said, I’ve seen the band,” Melanie says, taking a sip of her drink. “Michael’s a groupie, so. He’s usually around.”

“I’m not a _groupie!_ ” Michael protests. Melanie just laughs, and he blushes, running a hand through his curly hair. “I always go to Gerry’s shows,” he says sheepishly. “I-I might not be a fan of the genre, really, b-but I always like to say hello to any familiar faces, you know. Make friends with the fans, keep them coming back.”

Melanie raises her eyebrows. “Oh, so you’re just using me for the business, is that it?”

“No!” Michael says quickly. “That’s not it at all, I-I didn’t mean it like—”

“Relax, Michael,” Melanie says with a wave of her hand. “Have you met Georgie? Georgie, this is Michael; Michael, this is my girlfriend Georgie.”

“I’m Martin,” Martin adds. “I think I’ve seen you before, actually—weren’t you at the open mic a while back?”

“I was!” says Michael. “I think I saw you, too—you read _After A Greek Proverb,_ right?” Martin nods, beaming. 

Jon settles back, content to listen to them all chatter amongst themselves. More and more people flood into the venue, and the sound of their voices layers over the crash of drums as the instruments are set up onstage. Jon lets it all wash over him, half-listening to Martin and Michael’s conversation. Most of the room is dark, but Martin’s face glows under the blue light, a fixed point for Jon to tie himself to.

Once the lights start to flicker, Melanie taps Jon on the shoulder. “I’m going in now,” she says, her voice raised so he can hear. “Meet up with you back here after?” Jon nods, and she slips into the crowd. Michael follows her. 

Georgie chews on her lip.

“You know what? I’m doing it,” she decides. “I’m going in. Wish me luck!” And with that, she goes after Melanie and vanishes into the crowd, leaving Jon alone with Martin.

“So what are the odds she comes right back out as soon as it starts?” Martin asks.

“Hmm… somewhere around ninety percent?” Jon muses. “The other ten percent is if she gets stuck.”

Martin laughs. He starts to say something, but he’s cut off by the low growl of a bass guitar. The band has taken the stage. Gerry stands over to the left, his dark hair falling over his face. He looks different onstage—more imposing, like a proper rock star. The lights have shifted to a deep violet. The shadows hang around his guitar, hanging loose at his hips, and as the kick drum counts them in, his smile is wicked. 

The band is… loud. Jon wishes he had brought a set of earplugs—not out of disrespect, but in the interest of preserving his hearing. He’s spotted a few other people wearing them. But as deafening as it may be, they’re pretty good. The singer’s voice is high and raspy, but with a powerful edge to it; when she hits a piercing note, the crowd goes wild. Jon can’t make out the guitars very distinctly, but what he can make out sounds damn good, and Gerry certainly looks like he’s having the time of his life. 

Jon looks over at Martin. He’s got his hands over his ears, but he’s bobbing his head to the music, like it’s just another catchy pop tune. Jon cracks up. Martin notices, and he grins, mouthing, “What?” Jon just shakes his head. 

The song ends with a long power chord. Someone in the crowd whoops. The singer steps away from the mic, and the bassist, a handsome Black guy with short dreads, takes her place. 

“Hello everyone,” he says, low and coy, like there’s only a few people in the room with him. Someone wolf-whistles. He grins. “Hush, none of that.” The crowd laughs, and he continues with, “Welcome to our little show! We are Ex Altiora, and it’s a privilege to see all your lovely faces tonight.” 

A few people cheer. He waits for them to quiet down. Once they have, he points out into the crowd. “This next song is called _Chosen,_ and if you know the words, I want to hear them!” 

He steps back, and the singer is in the spotlight once more. She tosses her red hair back, and that’s when it hits Jon: he’s ninety percent sure that this is one of Georgie’s suitemates. Her name might be Agnes. He’s only ever seen her hanging around Georgie’s kitchen, and he’d been under the impression that she was fairly shy and reserved. Apparently, he was wrong. 

This song is faster than the last. Agnes spits out the words like a curse, and the energy in the room shifts; the air itself itches, raring for a fight. The tension builds, like a spark running down a fuse toward the inevitable explosion.

Then, all at once, the crowd parts, and someone goes running straight into the middle.

That someone, predictably, is Melanie. 

Jon takes a few steps back, pulling Martin along with him. It doesn’t take long for the floor to devolve into chaos—it’s a mass of whirling bodies all knocking into each other, ricocheting and crashing to the grinding distortion of the guitars. Jon tries to keep an eye on Melanie’s dyed hair, but it’s too much; he quickly loses track of her in the roiling pit.

Someone slams into Jon. He stumbles into Martin, pain flaring up his side. “Oh shit, sorry!” says the guy who’d bumped into him. “You okay?”

Jon just nods, wincing slightly, and the guy dives back in. Martin draws him closer, wrapping an arm around his side. “You all right?” he yells over the music. 

Jon nods again. His hip bone aches, but it’s nothing serious; it’ll fade quickly enough. He makes eye contact with Martin and points to the back of the room. Martin gives him a thumbs up and guides him to the back wall.

It’s a little quieter there, but not by much. Martin leans in close so Jon can hear. “That looked like it hurt,” he says, sounding concerned even with his voice raised. “Do you want me to get you anything?” Something about the proximity of Martin’s voice to his ear makes Jon shiver. It must be the volume; he’s oversensitive to everything. 

“I’m fine,” Jon yells back. “Let’s just… stay here?”

Martin smiles. He doesn’t respond, simply tightening his grip around Jon’s waist. It shouldn’t be so comforting—Martin’s not exactly in a place to be protecting Jon from anything, given how much shorter he is, but his touch feels safe, somehow. Jon wants to rest his head on Martin’s shoulder, but something tells him he shouldn’t. That would be too much, too close to… 

Too close to what, exactly?

Martin’s arm around him feels like an anchor, keeping him exactly where he wants to be. What about that is wrong? Why shouldn’t he lean in closer? What is he missing here?

Martin smiles up at him, and it’s so sweet, Jon’s knees go weak for a moment.

Oh. Right. 

That.

When the hell did Jon start feeling like _that_ for Martin?

Agnes screams out the last line of the song, and all the lights go out. The crowd cheers. The room brightens again after only a few seconds as the lights slowly fade back up. Jon can’t tear his eyes off Martin, even when Martin looks away, waving to someone Jon can’t see. 

Georgie joins them by the wall, her makeup smudged and bangs plastered to her forehead with sweat. 

“How are you two doing?” she says breathlessly. “I feel like a changed person after that!”

Martin laughs. Jon’s chest flutters, and with a dazed sort of shock, he thinks he feels the same way as Georgie. 

Georgie tilts her head, an odd expression crossing her face, and looks back and forth between Jon and Martin.

Jon averts his eyes, but Georgie’s jaw has already dropped. “Jon,” she says. “Did something _happen?_ ”

Shit. He knows that tone of voice—that delighted, teasing faux-surprise she gets when Jon’s slow on the uptake. She keeps looking at Martin, being horribly unsubtle. How does she know? How does she already _know,_ when Jon’s just barely recognized it? It’s not fair.

“No,” Jon says firmly. “I just got bumped into, that’s all.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Georgie says gleefully. “Shook you right up, did it?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jon mutters. 

“What?” Martin asks.

“Nothing,” they say in unison.

***

>   
>  **Dear Watcher,**  
>  Watching my boyfriend perform is my favorite thing in the world, I’m so in love it’s ridiculous. I can’t believe how lucky I am!!!!! Goth bf of my dreams <33  
>  _Like . Comment . Share_
> 
> **Georgie Barker:** Gay rights!!!  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Natalie Ennis:** Hey OP where did you find a goth bf please I need to know. Am taking applications for a goth bf. Single goths in my area please DM me.  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Gerry Delano:** gee i wonder who could’ve written this post  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Michael Shelley:** _Gerry Delano_ I guess we’ll never know!!!!! :-P  
>  _Like . Reply_  
> 

***

Martin comes around behind the front desk and dumps his backpack onto the floor with a huff. Jon raises an eyebrow as he drops down into a chair. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Not really,” Martin mutters. “My advisor’s an absolute nightmare.”

Jon clicks out of the tab on his computer and shifts to face Martin. “I’d believe it,” he says. “Who do you have?”

Martin scowls. “Lukas. I don’t know if you’ve heard of him, but he’s a total prick—he acts like just ‘cause I’m a writer I’m going to go off and be the next Shakespeare or something. Like, he talks about masters programs and going abroad and all that shit, but he just conveniently chooses to gloss over the fact that not everyone can _do_ that. Like there aren’t any _real_ obstacles, I’ll magically work it all out somehow.” He rips his bag open and pulls out his laptop.

“It’s good that he believes in you, at least,” Jon says cautiously. “I’m sure you’re very talented.”

Martin snorts. “Yeah. Sure.”

Jon frowns. “I mean that. I know I haven’t read any of your work yet, but I’m sure—”

“No, it’s not like that,” Martin cuts him off. He sighs. “It’s not about talent. I’m sure I could get myself into a program somewhere, but even if that does happen, it’s going to be a while. I have… other stuff I need to take care of first.”

Oh. Shit. “I’m sorry,” Jon says. “I-I didn’t mean to overstep, I know I don’t know anything about the situation.”

“No, it’s fine.” Martin sets his laptop on the counter and just looks at it for a while. 

“My mum’s ill,” he finally says. 

“It’s okay, you don’t have to tell me,” Jon says quickly, but Martin waves him off.

“It’s fine. I don’t really… I haven’t really told anyone else at school?” he says. “Like, ever? So… it could do some good to, y’know, talk about it a bit. It’s nothing too bad, it’s just… we don’t have that much money, so I’m mostly getting myself through school, and then once I’m out, I’ve got to take care of the both of us.” He smiles wryly. “Plus I’m an English major. Really made things easier on us with _that_ choice.”

Jon swallows. He doesn’t know what to say; he never does. He goes for a shot in the dark: “I’m sure you’ll work things out. A-and I don’t mean that in the way that your problems aren’t legitimate, I know it must be difficult. But you’ll find a way. Even if that way isn’t as clear-cut as Lukas thinks it can be.”

Martin gives him a small smile, and for once, Jon feels like he’s said the right thing. “Thanks,” he says. 

“I know how it is to have someone who doesn’t get it breathing down your neck,” Jon says, smiling back. “My advisor’s pretty awful too.”

Martin laughs. “We should make a support group. Who’ve you got?”

“Dr. Bouchard. Tim has him, too, but they don’t get on very well.”

“Do _you_ get along well with him?” Martin asks. 

“I don’t say anything to his face,” Jon says with a shrug. “That’s good enough when it comes to him.”

“I’m not going to lie, the only reason I know who he is is because I’ve heard Dr. Lukas complain about him,” Martin says sheepishly.

“I could say the same about Lukas, actually,” Jon admits.

“Yeah. It’s weird, though, it’s almost like… I dunno, do you ever feel like there might be something…” Martin gestures vaguely. When Jon doesn’t respond, he blushes a little and goes on: “Y’know, there might be something going on between them?”

Now that’s a mental image Jon never asked for. “God, I hope not,” he mutters. 

“Agreed,” says Martin. “That’d just be evil. I’ve seen people complain about Bouchard on _The Watcher_. Isn’t he supposed to be, like—”

“He’s a terrible professor,” Jon sighs. “His exams are wicked, he’s a condescending bastard if you say something he doesn’t agree with, and he’s definitely a bit sexist. He just loves the sound of his own voice.”

“Sounds like him and Lukas aren’t too different, then,” Martin says with a wry smile. 

“Of course. I think they make a point of hiring the most patronizing pricks they can find for the advising positions,” says Jon. Martin giggles, and Jon has to bite back a smile. Martin’s laugh is always infectious—it makes something warm bloom inside his chest every time he hears it, but this is even better. There’s a special flutter of satisfaction in seeing Martin laugh after he came in so annoyed. In knowing it’s because of him.

Martin sits back in his chair, looking a hundred percent more cheerful than he had before. “It’s whatever,” he decides. “I won’t let him get to me. I don’t even have to think about that stuff yet, I’ve got another year.”

“That’s right,” Jon agrees. “You can do whatever you need. Just keep writing.”

Martin flashes him a grin and reaches into his backpack again. “Yeah. I just had an idea for something, actually.” He fishes around in his backpack for a minute. His grin slowly melts away as he opens up the next pocket, and then the smaller one on the outside. “Oh, shit,” he says. 

“What?”

“My notebook isn’t in here,” Martin says, digging through the pockets in panic. “I couldn’t find it in my room so I just assumed I’d already— _shit_.” 

“Oh!” Jon says. Shit, he’d totally forgotten. “Don’t worry, I’ve got it.” He reaches around and grabs his bag. Martin’s notebook is still tucked away in the front pocket where Jon had put last week. He straightens back up and passes it to Martin.

Martin’s face has gone completely white. “Y-you have it?” he squeaks. “Why? When did I—”

“You left it on the table the last time we got lunch together,” Jon explains. “I was holding onto it for you. I would’ve given it back sooner, I just forgot. Sorry.”

“That’s okay,” Martin says, still too high-pitched. “Did you—um, y-you didn’t read it, did you?”

“No, I figured you wouldn’t want me to,” says Jon.

Martin takes the notebook and exhales slowly. “Okay,” he says. “Th-thanks.”

“I’m not that inconsiderate, don’t worry,” Jon says. “Although, if you ever have anything you would be willing to share, I’d love to read it.”

Martin blinks. “Really?”

“Of course,” Jon says. 

Martin’s face goes red again, and he averts his eyes, opening up his laptop. “Maybe,” he says. “Y-yeah, okay. Maybe.”

Jon smiles, and Martin gives him a small, shy smile in return. Jon’s heart swells. He can barely breathe around the flurry of butterflies, but looking at Martin, he forgets he ever needed to in the first place.

***

Having a crush is strange. It flips Jon’s life upside down. It’s like he doesn’t know himself at all anymore—he can never predict what’s going to make him blush or send him off into daydreams. The world is colored in a more rosy shade, even when Martin’s not around. Jon starts drinking tea more often, because, well, it’s just become a habit at this point. He accidentally stays up past two reading Emily Dickinson. He smiles more often than not, and it feels… good.

But it’s not all sunshine and rainbows. 

However nice it is to indulge in daydreams, Jon knows that’s all they can be. Martin’s never given any indication that he might be interested in Jon. After all, why would he? Jon’s not the most appealing person in the world. According to his friends, he has a major case of resting bitch face, and he spends more time working than anything else.

Martin’s not like Jon. He’s cheerful and kind and talented, the kind of person who you trust instantly. He could have anyone. And he certainly deserves someone better than Jon.

Jon tries not to think about it too much, to just enjoy the floating feeling he gets when Martin laughs, but he can never really forget how different they are.

***

Jon has to fight to keep his eyelids open. They weigh down on him, the pull dragging at his entire body, coaxing him to rest his head on his arms for just a second, just a minute. But he has to get this grading done. He’s been putting it off long enough as it is.

Jon sits up straighter and clenches his pen in his fist. He just has to fight through this bout of exhaustion, and then the second wind will come. Or the third. He’s lost track at this point. He’s tempted to grab his phone and check the time, but if he does, he’ll only get distracted. That’s why he came to the library to work in the first place—so he couldn’t waste time talking to friends. He texted Georgie to complain a while ago, and he can’t afford to get roped into a conversation now. 

Just a few more quizzes to grade. Just a few more, then he’s done. 

A soft knock comes from somewhere nearby.

Jon looks up. Martin is standing at the edge of the nearest shelf, a to-go cup in each hand. “Hey,” he says, smiling softly. It makes his eyes crinkle a bit, and Jon’s stomach flips. “Georgie said I might find you here. How’s it going?”

Jon sits back and sighs. “Not great,” he admits. “I’ve still got so much to do, but I’m so tired, it’s all bleeding together.”

“I can imagine. How long have you been here?”

Jon shrugs. “What time is it?”

Martin checks his phone. “Nearly three,” he says. 

Jon’s heart jumps. “Oh God,” he breathes. “I’m so fucked.” He runs his hands through his hair, mentally counting the hours remaining before his classes in the morning. He’ll be able to fit in… four hours of sleep, tops? Four and a half, if he’s lucky? “Fuck,” he repeats. 

Martin smiles ruefully. “Yeah, I thought you might’ve lost track of the time. Here.” He holds out his two cups to Jon. “I brought tea. Wasn’t sure if you’d want regular or decaf at this hour, so I went ahead and made both. Take your pick.”

Jon stares down at the pages on his desk. He’s going to be up for a while, but he wants to be able to sleep afterwards. “Decaf, please,” he says. Martin hands him a cup, and Jon takes it gratefully. “Thank you,” he says. He takes a sip, and it’s perfect—still hot, and just strong enough. 

“Don’t worry about it,” says Martin. “You gonna stick around here for a while?”

“Probably.” Jon waves his hand to the nearest desk. “You can work here, I don’t mind. Might as well get things done together.”

“Oh! Um,” Martin rubs the back of his neck, “I, uh. Don’t actually have any work to get done? I just came by to check on you. It’d been a while since Georgie heard from you, and I—she was getting worried you’d fallen asleep in a textbook or something.”

“O-oh. Right. Well… thanks, I suppose,” Jon says. He takes another sip of tea, focusing on the warmth in his hands rather than in his cheeks. He honestly can’t think of anyone else he knows who would walk to the library at three in the morning to make sure he was all right. And even if they did, they definitely wouldn’t put in the extra effort of bringing tea. Martin makes utterly no sense, and the affection for him growing in Jon’s chest is almost too much to take.

“You’re welcome!” says Martin. “I just… I’ll be off, then. Hope you get the rest of those done.”

Jon grimaces. “I hope so too.”

“Yeah. Well… take care of yourself, Jon. Good night.” Martin gives him a little wave. Jon waves back, and Martin heads off down the aisle, until Jon hears the ding of the elevator and the closing of the door.

Despite the exhaustion threatening to overtake him, he’s smiling once again.

***

Martin scrolls through his phone as the elevator brings them up to the third floor. Jon pushes the cart out, and he’s about to head for the first aisle when Martin grabs his shoulder. “Hold on, you’ve got to see this,” he says, grinning. “Tim made a new video with the library staff.”

Jon freezes. He’s _told_ Tim a thousand times not to film him without permission, it’s a privacy concern. He can’t believe Tim would actually ignore him again. It’s really inconsiderate of him—Jon will have to have another talk with him. Maybe more than talk, this time, actually, they’re beyond that. Jon might just have to kill him at this point, the insensitive— 

“Oh my God, not you, specifically,” Martin says quickly. He looks like he’s trying to hold back a smile, his eyes shining a little too bright. “I know you hate that, he hasn’t—I just meant the rest of us, he asked us all to be in it.”

Jon blinks.

Oh. All right, then.

Martin loses the battle to keep a straight face, grinning widely. It only takes a second for even that much composure to slip. He bursts out laughing. “I’m sorry,” he wheezes. “Oh my God, Jon, your _face_ —” 

Jon’s face grows warm, but he has to stifle a smile. It’s hard not to laugh along with Martin. “Shh,” he says. “We’re in the stacks, we have to be quiet.”

Martin covers his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. His ears have gone red. “Sorry,” he gasps. “I just—you were _so_ mad just now, your face was too good, I’m sorry—”

“My face is perfectly normal. Nothing about this is funny. It’s not funny, Martin.” The attempt at a deadpan doesn’t quite work; Martin just leans into Jon’s shoulder as if he physically can’t stand on his own, still giggling into his hand. 

Butterflies go flurrying through Jon’s stomach. He pats Martin’s shoulder. This is fine. Martin is hopelessly adorable when he loses himself in a giggle fit, but it’s fine. Jon just can’t think about it too hard. “Would you like to show me the video?” he asks. 

“Y-yeah. One moment. God, I’m a mess.” Martin takes a few deep breaths. This only succeeds in getting him laughing again, but he waits it out, and once he can breathe properly again, he holds his phone out to Jon. He doesn’t move away, but sticks close to Jon’s side so they can both look.

The video itself is a silly little dance routine performed in the stacks with Tim, Georgie, Martin, and Basira. By the looks of it, Basira was only reluctantly roped in, and her facial expression barely changes as she listlessly imitates their moves. Objectively, it’s quite funny, especially once a student passes by in the background and gives the camera a weird look. 

Jon can’t focus on the video itself, though. All he can pay attention to is the fact that Martin is close enough for Jon to count the freckles on his hands. 

He reminds himself to breathe.

***

The Martin Situation, as Jon has begun mentally referring to it, is becoming a problem. 

Jon can barely work alongside him at this point. It’s not that he doesn’t _like_ it—that’s exactly the problem. He likes it too much. Martin will be helping some undergraduate at the desk, always eager to assist, always with a smile, and Jon will completely forget what he was supposed to be doing. Just yesterday he’d gotten caught up staring at the freckles scattered all over Martin’s face, drawn in by each and every one, and Martin had glanced up to catch him in the act.

“What?” he’d asked, adjusting his glasses. 

“N-nothing,” Jon had said quickly. “I was just… wondering if you ended up finding that book you were searching for last week?”

He’d spent the rest of his shift cursing at himself and avoiding looking at Martin. This can’t go on—Martin’s bound to notice eventually, and Jon really doesn’t want to think about how he’s going to explain himself. He’s not Tim, who can flirt his way out of—or into—any situation he likes.

He’s just… Jon.

Which is why he finds himself outside Georgie’s room, leaning against the wall. He reaches out and knocks a few times.

“Who is it?” her voice calls from inside.

“It’s me,” Jon says, just loud enough for her to hear through the door.

There’s a thumping noise, and then the door swings open. “That sounded awfully mopey,” Georgie says, frowning. “Everything all right, Jon?”

“No, not really.” Jon pushes himself off the wall. “Can I come in?”

“Course,” she says, and lets him inside. As soon as the door’s shut, she sits down on the bed and pats the place beside her. “Come on,” she says. “Let’s hear it, then. What’s wrong?”

Jon tucks his legs up onto the bed. “You could probably guess,” he says morosely, resting his chin on his knees. 

“Oh, don’t be like that,” Georgie says, not unkindly. She ruffles his hair. “I’m not a mind reader, Jon. I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Don’t play dumb,” Jon mutters. “I saw the way you were looking at me at the show. You know.”

“The show?” Georgie asks, furrowing her brow. “What do you—oh, you mean at Gerry’s thing?” Her eyes fly open, and she claps a hand to her mouth. “Oh no,” she whispers, distraught. “Are you talking about Martin? I’m so sorry, I hope I didn’t make things awkward, I didn’t really mean to imply there was anything going on—”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Jon cuts her off. “You were right.”

“I _was?_ Oh my God, if I’d known you really had feelings for him I never would have made fun where he could hear me, I’m so—”

“He didn’t notice anything,” Jon says wearily. “He’s fine. We’re fine.”

Georgie falters. “So… oh.” She shakes off the confusion. “Okay, that’s good. But now I’m lost. You _do_ like Martin?”

Jon stares at her comforter.

After a long pause, he says, “Yes.”

“And he… doesn’t know?”

“No, he doesn’t.”

“Then what’s got you so upset?”

“Does there need to be any other reason?” Jon asks miserably. He draws his knees closer to his chest. “I don’t _do_ this often, Georgie, I don’t—I don’t know how, and I can’t work with him, and it’s all just a mess. I can barely stand to be around him nowadays, i-it’s just too much.”

He risks a glance over to Georgie, expecting sympathy, or perhaps a grave expression of solidarity. Instead, he’s met with a fond smile. “Oh, Jon,” she says patiently, reaching over to rub his back. “You poor thing. You’re lovesick.”

Jon recoils. “I am _not_ ,” he says accusingly. 

Georgie laughs. “You so are!” she says. “Look at you! You come to me all mopey, making me think someone’s gone and died or something, but you’re just so head over heels you can’t cope with it! If you fancy him that much, you should—and I know this is far fetched, but listen—maybe ask him out? Maybe?” 

“I can’t do that!”

“Sure you can! Just give it a shot, why not?”

“Because he doesn’t like me!” says Jon. “Not like that! And even if he did, it’d just be… complicated. You know.”

“I really don’t,” says Georgie. 

Jon sighs and lets his head thunk back against the wall. “I don’t know how to do relationships,” he says. “You know that.”

Georgie giggles. “Yes, I’m well aware of our sordid history,” she says, patting his shoulder. “But, look. A lot has changed since then. You’ve grown. If you don’t know how to do something, you can just learn how! And besides, I bet you’d be way more compatible with Martin than you were with me. Maybe things would just work themselves out.”

“I doubt that,” Jon says under his breath. 

“Fine, fine. But you could at least give it a _try_...”

“There’s no point,” Jon says. “ _Even_ if it was a mutual thing, I don’t know what he would want, or if I could give it to him. You know me. I’m not—I’m not great at the whole affection thing—”

“Or communicating directly, or remembering important dates, yes,” Georgie finishes. “I know.”

“And I can’t have sex with him.”

Georgie sits up straight. “Jonathan Sims,” she says sharply. “If you’ve come into my room to beat yourself up about your own sexuality, I swear to God, I will not have it—”

“No, I—”

“You are a beautiful human being and anyone would be _lucky_ to have you—”

“It’s not like that,” Jon manages to speak over her. “I-I don’t feel bad about it, and I know I deserve to be respected, you don’t have to tell me that. That’s… that’s the thing, actually.” He sighs. “It’s just not something I can compromise on. If that was a dealbreaker for him… I-I could get over it, I mean, I know that’s a sign it wouldn’t be right for me anyway, but… I’m just scared to risk it, I guess. I don’t know how to deal with any of this.” 

“Like I said,” Georgie says with a smile. “Lovesick.”

“Fine. If you insist on calling it that.”

“I do. And lucky for you, I have just the cure!” Georgie hops up. She goes over to her mini-fridge and produces a carton of ice cream, which she holds up over her head. “Ta-da! It’s perfect. Now get my laptop, we’re watching Bake Off until you feel better.”

“Georgie, I don’t think—”

“Shh. Bake Off.”

Jon begrudgingly grabs her laptop and opens it up. “I am agreeing to this,” he says, “only on the condition that we watch series six.”

“Well, obviously,” Georgie scoffs. “Now scoot over, I want to see.”

Jon makes room for her to sit down, and she does, leaning her head against his shoulder. It’s warm and comfortable, with the string lights above her bed adding to the cozy atmosphere, and as the theme music plays, Jon feels himself relax. 

Maybe Georgie’s right. Maybe things will all be okay.

***

>   
>  **Dear Watcher,**  
>  god i hate prof bouchard so fucking much, hope that crusty old bastard chokes xoxo but also? tbh? i would let him ******* ** ****** ***** **** *** ***** [REDACTED BY MODS FOR OBSCENITY].  
>  _Like . Comment . Share_
> 
> **Michael Crew:** PLEASE DON’T BRING THIS BACK I CAN’T TAKE IT  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Annabelle Cane:** Stop it. Get some help.  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Tim Stoker:** You guys do realize he READS these, right??  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Melanie King:** _Tim Stoker_ EXCUSE ME???  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Tim Stoker:** _Melanie King_ He’s my advisor and I can say for an absolute fact that he keeps up with this page obsessively. He knows what people say. He Knows.  
>  _Like . Reply_
> 
> **Melanie King:** _Tim Stoker_ brb going to go gouge my eyes out this is the most cursed thing i’ve ever read  
>  _Like . Reply_  
> 

***

The door to the lounge bangs open, and Tim walks in. Georgie yelps and nearly falls out of Melanie’s lap. “Jesus,” Melanie says, exasperated. “A little warning, maybe?”

“Is anyone else getting _weird_ vibes this week?” Tim asks, walking straight past them to the kitchen. “I dunno. Something’s been off for days.”

“I’ll second that,” says Martin, raising his hand. “Ever since it started raining.”

“I’ve had an awful week,” says Daisy, her face half-buried in the couch cushions. “I slept through my 9 AM on Tuesday, and it’s been downhill from there.”

“Exactly!” Tim bangs around in the kitchen, opening up the fridge and cupboards until he finds a package of biscuits. He brings them back to the lounge and flops down onto the couch, landing on Daisy. She coughs out a curse and shoves him off. “I feel like a zombie,” Tim announces. He rips open the package and holds it out to Jon, who passes it on to Melanie. “It’s a Friday, I’m not allowed to be this drained. It’s ridiculous. I propose we do something drastic.”

“You could just _rest_ ,” Jon points out. “That is what people typically do when they’re tired.”

“Yeah, but I’m not just _tired_ ,” Tim says, sinking deeper into the couch. “I’m, like, brain dead. I need a good shock to the system.”

“We could go out,” Melanie suggests, munching on a biscuit. “I’m sure someone’s having a party somewhere.” 

“Yeah, but nobody I know.”

“Bullshit. You just need to get creative.” Melanie shifts so Georgie can get off her legs, then climbs over the table and goes down the hall. The sound of knocking floats down, and a door opens. “Hey Jude,” says Melanie. “You mentioned Flame was throwing a party sometime soon, right? Was that this weekend?”

“Yeah,” says Jude’s voice. “It’s tonight, actually.”

“Brilliant. I’m invited, yeah?”

“Sure. It starts at ten—there’s a cover at the door, I forget how much, but it’s not bad.”

“Great, thanks.” Melanie returns to the lounge, looking smug. “See?” she says to Tim. “Not so hard.”

Tim rolls his eyes. “Okay, just because you _talk to your suitemates_ and _make connections_ and whatever that was doesn’t mean you get to hold it over—”

“And what was your plan, flirt your way in somewhere?” Melanie laughs, taking a seat on Georgie’s lap.

“Maybe, but it’d work!”

“Well, this was easier!”

Jon sighs. He’s not huge on parties. He’ll drink as much as the next university student, but he prefers to do it in a private setting, and preferably one that’s not too loud. Once Tim has set his mind on going out, though, there’ll be no persuading him otherwise.

“Do you guys do this often?” Martin asks him. 

Jon glances at Melanie and Tim, who are still bantering back and forth. “What, argue about weekend plans?”

Martin laughs. “No, go out to parties.”

“Not too often. As a group, that is. Tim is… Tim,” says Jon. Martin nods. “But we’re all busy, and it’s not a first choice activity for everyone, so.” Jon shrugs. “Every once in a while.”

“I should hope it’s not a first choice for everyone,” Georgie says, nudging Jon. “Last time you got plastered, you wouldn’t shut up about Latin gerunds, and then I had to hold your hair back when—”

“Oh, God, don’t remind me,” Jon says with a wince. “I’d gotten so close to erasing that from my memory.”

“Wait, _you_ got plastered?” Martin asks, clearly holding back laughter. “That seems… I dunno, out of character?”

“Oh, it isn’t,” Melanie chimes in. “But he’s a total lightweight. Can’t hold his liquor for shit.”

“What about you, Martin?” Georgie asks. “I mean, is this even something you’d want to come along for? ‘Cause if you don’t want to go out, we could always find something else to do.”

“No, it’s fine,” Martin says quickly. “I-I mean, I’ve never really had a group of friends to go out with before.” 

“Wait.” Tim hauls himself upright. “Have you never been to a party before?” he demands.

“Of course I have,” Martin says, flushing a bit. “It was just… you know, a while ago. I tried a bunch of stuff my first year, and then once I got into habits and I really wasn’t experimenting anymore, I—”

“You’re telling me it’s been _two years_ since you last got to make terrible decisions and make fun of your friends after they’ve had too many?” Tim says, delighted. “Oh, we are _so_ doing this. Come on.” He jumps up. “We’ve got to get something for you to wear!”

“I think I’ll be fine in just this.”

“Noooo, you’ve got to have some fun with it! Plus you’re bound to overheat in a jumper.”

“He’s right,” Melanie adds. “You should find something lighter. Doesn’t have to be flashy, just comfortable.”

Martin looks helplessly to Jon, who just grimaces. He’s been on the receiving end of this before, and there’s no stopping it. Admittedly, on the occasions when Tim or Georgie have demanded to give him a makeover, he did end up looking rather nice. Not unlike himself, just… touched up a bit. 

“Just let them play dress-up,” he advises Martin. “They’ll get tired eventually.”

“Traitor,” Martin says under his breath.

A couple of hours later, Melanie is penciling a thick layer of black eyeliner underneath her eye, Tim is on his third trial outfit of the night, and even Basira has finished enough homework to come and watch as Georgie dances around the room. Martin stands in front of her mirror, tugging at the hem of his shirt.

“You really think this is enough?” he asks.

“Positive,” Georgie chirps. “You look great, Martin!”

Jon averts his eyes. Martin _does_ look great. He’s wearing a t-shirt with a casual button-down thrown over it—nothing too fancy, but the dark green color complements his hair perfectly, and it’s a dramatic contrast from his usual thick-knit jumpers. Jon doesn’t remember the last time he saw Martin’s arms. Something about seeing him like this, the difference in context… it sends a thrill shooting up his spine every time he dares to look.

He decides that the solution to this is to not look at all. He can’t go staring at the freckles on Martin’s arms, or the way his curls fall over his forehead. It’d be too noticeable. So he won’t look, and he definitely won’t think about what it might be like to reach over and take Martin’s glasses off, get a closer look at the rich brown of his eyes, lean in just a bit—

“What do you think, Jon?” Tim asks. “Quite handsome, isn’t he?”

“Oh, shut it,” Martin mumbles.

“Y-yes,” Jon stammers. “I suppose he does?”

“Oh, don’t ask Jon, he doesn’t know anything about style,” Georgie says distractedly. She’s fixing her hair in the mirror, sweeping her bangs to the side and pinning them in place with a black hair clip. Jon makes eye contact with her through the mirror and tries to telepathically beam as much gratitude to her as he can. She smiles. 

“Shall we go, then?” she asks, straightening up. She looks pointedly at Tim. “If you’re finished preening?”

“I’m not preening!” Tim protests. He drops his hand from his artistically tousled hair.

“Great! Let’s go,” says Melanie. She manages to herd the lot of them out the door and get them outside. Georgie grabs hold of her hand as they walk and laces their fingers together. Jon shoves his hands into his pockets.

Somehow, he ends up walking at the back of the group, and Martin falls into step beside him. “So,” he says. “Do we actually know anyone at this thing we’re going to?”

Jon shrugs. “Won’t know until we get there, I suppose.”

“I guess. And at least we’ve got each other! Nobody else I’d rather be with, really.”

“You won’t be saying that once everyone you know is snogging each other,” Jon says dryly. “You do realize all of our friends are dating? Once they get drunk it’ll all be over. We’re the only single ones left.” 

He doesn’t mention the fact that if that were to _change_ , he wouldn’t be too upset about it. It doesn’t seem relevant at the moment. 

“Tim’s single,” Martin points out. 

Jon waves a hand. “Tim doesn’t count,” he says disdainfully. “He’ll find someone. You and I are the last line of defense.”

“Hey, you never know,” Martin says. “Maybe… I dunno, m-maybe we could find people, too.”

Jon’s mouth goes dry. He’s just joking about the rest of them, but if Martin goes and finds someone to make out with in front of everyone, Jon really might have to leave. “Don’t leave me in the trenches alone,” he says. Hopefully the panic audible in his voice comes off as a joke.

Thankfully, Martin laughs. “Don’t worry, I won’t,” he says.

Thank God for that.

After a few blocks of walking, they finally arrive at the house. Colored lights glow from behind the curtains, and the dull pound of a bassline can be heard through the walls. At the door, there’s a girl in a red dress taking cover payments. Jon hands her a couple of dollars. Once they’ve all paid up, Melanie pushes the door open, and the scene swallows him.

The inside is entirely dark except for the flash of the rainbow strobe lights. Jon can’t see much around the crowds of people, but there’s a table-sized space toward the back of the room that might be the bar. Melanie pushes her way towards it. “Come on!” she says over her shoulder, voice raised so she can be heard over the music.

Martin grabs onto the back of Jon’s shirt as they move. Bodies press in around them from all sides, and Jon keeps his arms close, shrinking back to minimize contact. They break through to the table, and Tim’s already pouring drinks. “What d’you want?” he asks, not looking up.

“Punch, please,” Georgie sings, holding out a red solo cup. 

Basira is looking down at her phone. “Daisy’s going to meet us soon,” she says, her thumbs flying over the keyboard. “She says not to have too much fun without her.”

“Couldn’t if we tried,” Melanie says, grabbing the vodka bottle from Tim. “It’s not the same without the whole crew.”

“Aw, don’t say that,” Tim says. “I’ll just take it as a challenge!”

Melanie knocks back a shot and sets her cup on the table, smacking her lips. “Take it, then,” she says, and grins at Tim.

“Oh, it’s on,” says Tim.

Daisy shows up about ten minutes later, and she and Basira predictably stow themselves away in a corner to chat. Jon doesn’t know how they do it, with the music drowning everything out, but he supposes they won’t be focused on just _talking_ for long. Meanwhile, Georgie has taken over her corner of the dance floor, and is determined to get the rest of them to join her.

“Come on!” she says, tugging on Jon’s arm. “Just one song. Just one!”

“No,” Jon says, resisting her pull. “No. Definitely not.”

“Aw, c’mon,” Tim teases him. “Not gonna show us your moves?”

“I don’t have _moves_.”

“That’s all right, I’ve got enough for both of us!” Tim takes Georgie by the hand and twirls her around. She giggles. They might not be tipsy quite yet, but the mindset is there. Jon won’t let it get the best of him. He does _not_ dance, and that’s that. 

Georgie rotates her hands like she’s reeling in a fishing line, beaming at Melanie. Melanie rolls her eyes, but she’s laughing, and allows herself to be reeled in. Georgie shimmies around her. “Come on, Martin!” she cries. “Join the fun!”

Martin laughs into his hand. “Good lord,” he says. “Is she going to be terribly embarrassed about this tomorrow?”

“I expect not,” says Jon. He pours himself a drink—at this rate, he’s going to need it. “Go and join them, don’t let me hold you back.”

“You sure?” Martin asks. “I don’t want to leave you in the trenches.”

“Wh—oh.” Jon smiles. “It’s fine. Just don’t go too far.”

Martin laughs and goes to join the others. Georgie whoops as he takes his place in their little circle on the dance floor. Martin glances back over his shoulder at Jon, embarrassed. 

Georgie does a little wiggle that could be classified as a dance move, if you weren’t too familiar with the concept of dancing. “Come on, Martin!”

Jon raises his eyebrows and takes a sip of his drink. 

Martin sighs and mirrors Georgie’s wiggle. She cackles. Martin bursts out laughing with her, and as they dance around, Jon can see the moment when he gives in, when it stops becoming humiliating and starts becoming fun. Jon always has trouble with that step, himself. But watching is just as nice. He can see the way their energies build on each other, the way the light falls on Martin’s hair, the way his shy smiles turn to open giggles. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol, but Jon feels almost dizzy with fondness. He almost wants to join them. Maybe Martin could dance with him, close enough for their foreheads to touch, and Martin would smile, technicolor vivid as the light itself. 

But Jon can’t dance, so he contents himself to watch and wait.

He starts to lose track of the time after a while. One drink turns into a few. He cuts himself off after four—he knows his limits—but it’s enough that the room has gone pleasantly blurry, and the tense knot in his stomach has begun to unwind. This isn’t so bad after all. He somehow ends up on the edge of the dance floor, where Georgie and Tim are still dancing up a storm, looking like utter fools. Jon has no idea where all their energy comes from, but their laughter is infectious. Even Martin’s gotten giggly. 

“I-I just think it’s funny,” he says, stumbling a little. Jon steadies him, and Martin leans heavily against his side. Jon’s heart threatens to fly out of his chest, but Martin just keeps rambling: “Why is _everyone_ on the library staff gay? Isn’t that—it’s got to be statistically unlikely, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Jon mumbles. The weight of Martin’s side against his is all he can process. “It’s supposed to be one in every… ten people? Is that right?”

Georgie wrinkles her nose. “Ten? I thought it was five.”

“Noo, that’s way too many,” says Melanie. 

“Five is not too many!” says Georgie. 

“But if one in every ten people in the world is gay, and then a bunch of those one people all end up working at the same library, it all works out,” Jon continues. “And you wind up with the raging pool of office incest that is our staff.”

Melanie makes a face, but instead of arguing, she just kisses Georgie on the mouth and flips Jon the bird. Tim hoots at them. 

“Jesus Christ, how much have you lot had?” Basira asks, amused. Jon looks around for the source of her voice, and there she is, a few feet away with Daisy’s arms wrapped around her. 

Martin grabs Jon’s arm. “Jon,” he hisses. “Is Basira sober?”

“Probably,” Jon says. 

“I can’t hear you,” says Martin.

Jon leans in toward him and says “Yes,” louder this time. “She doesn’t drink.”

“Oh no,” Martin says, distressed. “Oh noooo, this is so embarrassing, Jon—Jon, Basira’s cool, I don’t want her to see me like this.” Basira, who is very much within earshot, is visibly holding back laughter. “I promise I’m not this much of a mess normally,” Martin says weakly. “I’m just—”

“Gay,” Melanie supplies, then goes right back to kissing Georgie. 

“I—yeah.” Martin sighs and lets his head drop onto Jon’s shoulder. Jon’s heart pounds so hard he can feel it reverberate through his body. He clumsily pats Martin’s head, and Martin settles in a little closer. Oh. Oh, that’s. Hm. Jon tentatively lets his hand slide down, and he strokes Martin’s hair, just where it starts to curl around the back of his neck. 

“Wait, is Martin sad?” Georgie asks. Jon startles and retracts his hand. Georgie breaks away from Melanie and flutters around Martin, looking upset. “Nooo, Martin isn’t allowed to be sad! Did we make you uncomfortable? I’m sorry!”

Melanie shushes her. “Nobody’s uncomfortable,” she says soothingly. “They’re just jealous. Not everyone can be as cute as you.”

This has the opposite of its intended effect. “Noooo!” Georgie says, distraught. “They’re plenty cute! Please don’t be sad, Martin, you’re very cute.” She pats Martin’s arm. Martin giggles. His breath is hot against Jon’s shoulder. Georgie smiles, encouraged. “See? There we go! Martin’s lovely and cute, don’t you think, Jon?”

Jon freezes. For a moment, he can’t breathe, much less speak. “I,” he says. “I, er. Y-yes, he is.”

Martin straightens up. His face is still far too close to Jon’s. His eyes sparkle with wonder. “Really?” he says. “You think so?”

Jon’s face burns. “Sure,” he manages. “I-I mean, yes. Definitely.”

“You really mean it?” Martin asks. 

Jon swallows. He’s acutely aware of Georgie watching him. “Yes,” he mumbles. “Georgie’s right, you’re…” Martin smiles, and God help him, Jon can’t look away from his lips. “You’re lovely,” he says. 

“ _You’re_ lovely,” Martin says dreamily. “You’re too pretty to be real. Are you real?” He puts his hand on the side of Jon’s face. “It’s like that poem. I think I made you up inside my head.” Jon has no idea what he’s referencing, and the slight slur in Martin’s words makes him think Martin doesn’t quite know, either. But their eyes are locked together, and Jon can’t look away. His entire body is buzzing. He can feel the space between them like there’s a live wire connecting every inch.

Martin licks his lips. “Hey, what if I just…”

He cups Jon’s face in both hands, and before Jon knows what’s happening, Martin is kissing him. 

It feels like the floor drops out from under him. The room is loud, but Martin’s touch is quiet, as soft as if they’re alone. Jon could almost forget that they aren’t. Martin’s lips are warm, and the way his mouth gently opens to Jon’s is intoxicating; Jon feels dizzy with it, this current of heat flowing between them like liquid gold. Jon’s hands finally flutter to Martin’s waist, and he wraps his arms around— 

“That’s my boy!” Tim hollers. 

Jon jumps back like he’s been shocked. His hand shoots up to his lips, still tingling with warmth and pleasantly numb. Martin’s face is bright red. “Tim!” he says. “Seriously?”

“Oh, don’t mind me!” Tim says, raising his hands. “Please, carry on! I’m proud to see it!”

Jon’s head spins. This can’t actually be happening. Tim’s grin is—it’s too pleased. There’s too much surprise and delight in his expression as he ruffles Martin’s hair, like they just did this for a laugh, like they did it the way Tim does. But they didn’t. It wasn’t _like_ that. Jon doesn’t kiss people on a drunken whim, and Martin… 

Oh, God, what if it _was_ like that? Martin had said that, earlier, hadn’t he? That he might be able to find someone, and then they’d all get to be in on the fun? It doesn’t matter if it was _Jon_ ; it could’ve been anyone. 

Jon stumbles back. 

Georgie touches his shoulder. “You okay, Jon?” she asks, but her voice is distant. The lights are too bright. Jon’s heart is still racing, but it’s too much, too fast; his hands barely feel connected to his body.

“Jon,” Georgie repeats, concerned. 

Shit. She’s onto him now. Jon can’t let Martin see him like this—it’d only worry him, and then everyone else would be worried, too, and they’d be too busy worrying to keep having fun. That’d be just like Jon, to ruin the party the moment people start enjoying themselves. He should just go. As long as he can slip away unnoticed, it’ll be fine.

“I have to go,” he says, and flees the room.

He squeezes his way through the crowd, down the hall, out the door, and breaks into the night with a gasp. His hands shake slightly as he pulls out his phone. He tells himself it’s because of the cold. But even as he draws his cardigan closer around himself, the tremors continue, and the gentle warmth of the spring air mocks him. 

He plugs in the address for his dorm and starts to walk down the road.

He makes it about twenty feet before the door bangs open behind him. “Jon!” calls Georgie. “Wait!”

Shit. 

“Jonathan Sims, don’t you dare keep walking,” Georgie threatens, and hurries down the steps. She nearly trips over the last one, but it doesn’t stop her; she marches right up to him. “Right. What was that? Are you okay? Don’t lie to me.”

Jon swallows hard. “I…” 

Georgie looks him over, and a flicker of something goes through her face; it’s not quite sadness, more understanding. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says gently. “But if you’re leaving, let me come with you.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know. But I’m not letting you walk back alone.” Georgie takes his hand. “I already told Melanie I was going. They’ll all be fine, I’m sure they won’t be out much longer anyway.” She gives his hand a squeeze. “So let’s just go home, shall we?”

Jon’s throat closes up, and he nods.

***

Even once Jon’s body has decided he’s awake, exhaustion still weighs on him. His limbs feel heavy as rocks as he lays in bed. He slowly opens his eyes, blinking experimentally—the hangover test comes back negative, and he rolls over onto his side. Thank God he’s smart enough to keep hydrated while drinking. Last night had been pretty…

Jon freezes. Oh God. Last night. 

The memory comes flooding back all at once, and it feels like he’s imploding. Jon curls into himself, inhaling sharply. Fuck. Shit. Martin _kissed_ him. He kissed Martin.

And then he _ran away,_ fuck, what was he _thinking?_

He replays the moment over and over in his brain. He shouldn’t, but he can’t stop himself—as soon as he thinks back to the way Martin had fallen into him, his mind launches into a full-scale recreation of the memory, from the softness of Martin’s lips to the tentative press of his hand into the small of Jon’s back.

Jon swallows hard. It had been good. It had been _so_ good, but… 

But they were drunk. But it didn’t mean anything. It can’t have; Jon isn’t that lucky. Martin probably just wanted a bit of fun, and now Jon’s really gone and messed it up. With any luck, he’ll come off as awkward, and Martin will just be stuck thinking he can’t take a joke, but knowing how things usually work out for Jon, his feelings have been made terribly obvious.

Jon pulls his pillow over his face. 

“You all right?” says Gerry’s voice from across the room. 

It would be too much for the universe to allow him to be miserable in private, wouldn’t it. “I’m fine,” Jon mumbles into the pillow. 

“Can’t hear you, mate. You good?”

Jon sighs and pushes the pillow aside. “I’m fine,” he says. “Just a bit hungover.” That’s a lie, but it’ll do.

Gerry hums in sympathy. “Yeah, you came in pretty late last night.”

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“Nah, I was awake anyway. You want some Paracetamol?” A drawer opens with a clunk, and there comes the rattle of a bottle of pills being shaken. 

Jon props himself up on his elbows so he can look at Gerry properly. “I’m fine,” he says, forcing a smile. “I’ll probably just head to the dining hall and get something to eat. Thank you, though.”

“Suit yourself.” Gerry puts the bottle back and gets up from his desk chair, stretching his arms over his head. “I’ll be out most of the day, I’m going over to Michael’s. Help yourself to the painkillers if you change your mind.”

“Thanks.” Jon watches as Gerry shoves some notebooks, a water bottle, and an eyeliner pencil into his bag, then he’s out the door, leaving Jon alone with the silence.

Jon flops back on his pillow and exhales deeply.

He lays around for another hour or so before he manages to work up the resolve to roll out of bed. He showers, puts on a clean set of clothes, and tries not to think about Martin. 

He fails.

As he walks across campus to the dining hall, it’s all he can think about. How on earth is he supposed to face Martin at work now? Can he just pretend it never happened? That seems like the wisest course of action, but there’s no guarantee Martin won’t bring it up, and then Jon won’t know what to say.

The dining hall is packed. It tends to be on Saturday mornings—it’s chocolate chip pancake day, and even the late risers can’t resist. Jon gets in line, mulling over the various cover stories he could tell if Martin decides to bring up Jon’s idiotic decisions. He can’t see a way out that doesn’t end with Martin treating him differently, and that makes his stomach twist. 

By the time he reaches the buffet, the anxiety has gotten so strong that the scent of food actually makes him vaguely sick. Maybe he’s not so hungry after all. Still, he should eat something if only on principle. He piles a few pancakes onto his plate and retreats to a table. 

Once he’s sat down, he rests his elbows on the table and buries his face in his hands. He just has to breathe. Just breathe. In a few weeks, this will all be over, and he can look back on the memory and laugh.

Well, maybe not weeks. Months might be more realistic. Years.

His phone buzzes. It’s a text from Georgie: _Hey, how are you feeling? Not too hungover?_

_I’m fine,_ he texts back. 

_Gotcha. I’ll come over this afternoon._

Jon swallows a groan. He sets his phone on the table and sticks a fork into his pancakes, resolving not to text her back. He can take care of himself, he doesn’t need her to…

Fuck.

Martin is sitting across the hall from him. Not only that, Martin is _looking_ at him. 

Oh God. Jon hasn’t come up with the right thing to say yet. Is Martin going to come over? If he doesn’t, that might be worse; then they’ll just be sitting there, each trying to pretend they don’t notice the other’s presence, all while the weight of it crushes them both. Jon can’t do this. Not now. 

He grabs his phone and bolts from the dining hall.

He doesn’t look at Martin as he goes, and he can only hope Martin does the same.

***

Jon really doesn’t tell Basira how much he appreciates her often enough. Well—he doesn’t tell anyone that very often, he’s not big on verbalizing his emotions—but it’s particularly true for Basira. She’s the one person in his life who is always unflinching, always steady. Even when everything else is chaos, she’s the same calm, quiet bookworm as ever.

She’s the only person who hasn’t reacted to the whole Martin-and-Jon business. Georgie tried talking to him about it—which, as considerate as it was, was really not something Jon could handle. Tim teases too much, and even Daisy and Melanie’s raised eyebrows speak volumes. Basira, though. Basira treats him the same as she always has. Everything is normal with her.

Until.

“So,” Basira says, pushing the cart towards Jon. “How are you feeling about the pizza party?”

Jon slowly places a book on the shelf. “The what?” he asks. 

“The pizza party. I guess the library’s throwing one for the student workers, to say thank you. I thought you might’ve heard about it by now.” Basira tilts her head. “So… you gonna go?”

Oh God. “I-it’s for all the student workers?” Jon asks. Basira nods. Shit. That means Martin will definitely be there, and there won’t be any way for Jon to escape without being blatantly obvious about it. He could just not go, but that would be obvious too, in its own way. Everyone would notice. And he wouldn’t want Martin to have to deal with that elephant in the room on his own.

“I think you should come,” says Basira. “Might do some good, to just have some fun with everyone.”

Jon nods distractedly. Maybe she’s right—she usually is. Maybe he could just go, and it could be a first step towards regaining normalcy.

It isn’t.

In fact, it’s supremely awkward. When Jon arrives, Martin is already there, chatting with the others at the table that’s been set up in the staff room. Jon keeps his head down and goes over to get a slice of pizza, hoping against hope that he won’t be noticed.

“Hi, Jon,” Daisy says with a wave. 

“Come and sit!” Tim adds. “We’ve been waiting on you, don’t leave us hanging!”

Martin doesn’t say anything. He’s looking at the floor. Jon stands frozen, unsure of where to go. “I-I was thinking I might just say hello, I really do have a lot of work to do,” he says.

“Oh, don’t be a buzzkill,” Tim chides him. “Come and sit, there’s plenty of room.”

Everyone is looking at Jon. Except Martin, of course.

Jon reluctantly sits down.

Daisy and Basira start talking about Basira’s latest run-ins at her job as a campus Safe Walker—walking around campus at one in the morning looking for people to escort tends to lead to some interesting encounters. Jon gets the sense that this is the continuation of an earlier conversation. He listens and chimes in occasionally, but Martin doesn’t. 

It eats away at Jon. Martin isn’t usually this quiet; it throws the energy of the room all off. Jon is left desperately trying to fill the conversational void. He’s sure it must be obvious, and that only makes it worse.

After he feels like he’s spent enough time there to indulge Tim, he clears his throat. “Well, it’s been nice talking to you all, but I really do have a lot of work to do,” he says. He gets up to throw out his paper plate and turns back to the group. “I’ll see you next week?”

“Awww,” says Georgie, pouting a little. “All right. See you then!”

“Actually, I should probably get going too,” says Martin. He pushes out his chair. “It’s been nice hanging out with you all. See you around.”

Jon slips out of the room while Martin is saying his goodbyes and hurries toward the elevator. The last thing he wants is to end up stuck in the elevator with him, or something like— 

“Jon,” Martin calls from behind him. “Wait for me!”

Jon nearly trips over his own feet. He looks back over his shoulder, and Martin is jogging to catch up with him. He stops a few feet away and takes a deep breath. “I want to talk to you,” he says. “About… what happened. You know.”

Fuck.

“Right,” Jon says. His mind races. Okay, he can do this. “I-I’m sorry for leaving so suddenly, and for being so distant lately, I just—”

“No, it’s okay. You don’t have to explain,” Martin interrupts. He stares resolutely at the floor. “I just wanted you to know that it’s okay. I mean, you don’t have to worry about me treating you any differently, it was just—you know, we were both drunk, it didn’t have to mean anything—”

“Right! Yes,” Jon says quickly. It stings to hear it said out loud, but there’s a silver lining in this; Martin hasn’t realized. He doesn’t know how much it _did_ mean to Jon. “It was just a one-time thing,” Jon says. The words feel like barbed wire, ripping at his throat as he forces them out. “We can just… forget it.” 

“Right,” Martin says. “Yeah, exactly. I’m really sorry if I made you uncomfortable. I don’t want this to change anything.”

“Me neither,” says Jon. Martin smiles at him. It doesn’t reach his eyes.

They might not want anything to change, but that doesn’t mean nothing has.

***

Jon prides himself in being able to take care of things on his own. He’ll complain to his friends about the small things, and confide in them when he’s stressed, but he keeps the heavy stuff to himself. His friends have their own problems to deal with; they don’t need to think about his, too. Most of the time, it works out fine. 

But sometimes, the weight is just too much.

Jon considers turning back every step of the way. He’s already gone to Georgie once to talk about Martin, does doing it again make him look desperate? Is it too much? Is it weird? Probably not; she’s talked to him about enough of her crushes over the years. She’d spent hours fretting to him about Melanie before they finally got together. 

It feels like losing a battle, going to her for help. But it’s a battle he can’t stand to fight anymore, so he lets it happen, and knocks on her door. 

“Who is it?” she calls. 

“It’s Jon,” he says. “Can I come in?”

“Yeah! Door’s unlocked.”

Jon turns the handle and pushes the door open. Georgie is sat at her desk chair, a chunky pair of headphones over her ears. She slides them off and gives him a smile. “Hey. How’s it going?”

Jon kicks his shoes off and doesn’t answer.

“Jon?” she says, her expression quickly morphing into one of concern. “Everything okay?”

“I’m sorry,” Jon mutters. “I know it’s not the greatest to just show up in a mood and expect you to deal with it, I—”

“No, no, hey, hold on.” Georgie clicks out of her tab and sets her headphones on the desk. She gets up and places a hand on Jon’s shoulder, searching his expression. “Are you all right? What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” says Jon. 

“Jon.”

Jon sighs. “I’m just… upset,” he admits. “About Martin.” He has to force the words out; they thicken in his throat, crawling with reluctance, like something to be spat out onto the floor and never looked at again. 

Georgie’s face softens. “Oh, Jon. Is it an ice cream kind of day?”

Jon shakes his head. He doesn’t know what he wants, but it’s not that. Just sitting might be enough. 

Georgie seems to understand. She sits on the bed and scooches back so there’s room for him. “You want to talk about it?” she asks.

Jon sits down next to her and leans back against the wall. “I don’t know,” he says truthfully. “There’s just… a lot.”

“I get that,” says Georgie. “Do you want a distraction, or just some quiet?”

“Quiet sounds nice. Thank you.”

Georgie shifts so she can get her arm behind his neck and pull his head closer. She doesn’t say anything, just softly cards her fingers through his hair. Some of the tension in Jon’s shoulders loosens, and he sinks deeper into the mattress, closing his eyes. 

“Everything’s gone wrong,” he murmurs. “I just wanted things to be okay again.”

“Is that really all you wanted?” Georgie asks.

She just had to call him out, didn’t she. “No, of course not,” he sighs.

“Did you ever tell him that?” Georgie probes. Jon shakes his head ever so slightly, not wanting to move enough to make her stop petting his hair. She doesn’t. She scratches gently at his scalp, and, as if patiently talking to a young child, asks, “Why not?”

“It feels like we’re already past that point,” Jon says. “I missed my chance.”

“Well, you missed _a_ chance,” says Georgie. “But I think you could still fix things. If you were honest with each other.” Jon shakes his head. “Oh, come on. You really don’t think so?”

“No, I… I don’t know. Maybe you’re right,” he whispers. “But I can’t do that, I just—I can’t.” He takes a moment to breathe. The words stick in his throat. He can’t bring himself to force them out. When did this become such a big deal? When had he gotten so invested?

“I really want this to work,” he says. “But I’m scared to talk to him, because if he says there’s no chance, then it’s going to hurt. A lot.”

Georgie is quiet. 

“I think this,” she says, “is a job for The Admiral.” 

She carefully removes her arm from behind Jon, slides off the bed, and pads out of the room, making little kissy noises and calling out to her cat. Technically speaking, she isn’t supposed to let him roam the suite—he’s only allowed on campus as an emotional support animal, and he should be kept within her room, but all her suitemates love him so much that he gets free reign of the place. 

While Georgie’s gone, Jon adjusts himself into a cross-legged position and tugs one of Georgie’s comforters over his lap. 

She comes back with her arms full of orange fluff. The Admiral mews. Georgie plops him down into Jon’s lap, where he immediately settles himself down and begins purring in earnest. Jon scritches behind his ears.

He has to admit—he’s still fairly miserable, but no hurt seems quite as pressing with a soft cat to pet.

“I know it’s scary,” Georgie says gently. “But it sounds like you’re already hurting either way. So I think you should at least have a talk with him.”

“Yes, but if I don’t talk to him, then at least he won’t _know_ ,” Jon points out. “Imagine if I had to work with him and he _knew_.”

Georgie shrugs. “You could always change your schedule. And besides, things could… you know, work out?” Jon glares at her, and she raises her hands in surrender. “Okay, okay! Be defeatist. I was just saying.”

The Admiral meows and kneads his paws into Jon’s leg. Jon lifts him up before his claws can poke through Jon’s jeans, then sets him down again, running a hand down the length of his fluffy back. 

He wants to be able to say yes, to tell Georgie that she’s right. But to do so would be to truly invest himself in this—more than he already has, that is. Agreeing to talk to Martin would mean there was a chance it could end well. There would be an implicit hope in it that he can’t bring himself to feed.

If he did, it would only devour him.

***

Jon’s emotional life—and one of his jobs—might be in turmoil, but he has other obligations to attend to. Namely, the pile of ungraded quizzes that’s been staring accusingly at him for a week now. If he ignores it any longer, Dr. Bouchard is going to start giving him _looks_ , and that would be entirely too much for Jon to deal with.

So he texts Tim to suggest they get their TA work done together, and that’s how he winds up with Tim sitting on his floor, looking through a stack of reading reflections. 

Jon and Tim have very different TA styles. Tim’s attitude toward most things is “wing it,” which results in a lot of spontaneously scheduled meetings with students and casual explanations. Jon prefers mapping things out; he has specific office hours that students can sign up for, and he tries to get his grading done at a consistent time each week. Not that he’s been doing that lately, of course. He’s been a bit preoccupied. 

It’s almost relieving, getting back to his work. It’s a distraction, if nothing else.

At least, until Tim glances up from the floor. “Soooo,” he says, overly casual. “How’re things with Martin?”

“Oh, don’t start,” Jon mutters. 

“What? I’m just asking! Can’t a guy make a little inquiry into his friend’s romantic adventures?”

“I don’t appreciate being made fun of.”

“What? I’m not making fun of you!” says Tim. Jon gives him a look. “Okay, maybe just a bit,” Tim concedes. “But it comes from a place of love. And I’m serious about that, Jon. I just want to know how you’re doing.” 

Jon sighs. “Not fantastic. You saw how it was at the staff party.”

Tim grimaces. “Yeah. That was pretty painful. I don’t know how it happened, though. You two seemed to be getting on fine before… you know.”

Jon knows.

“What happened there, if you don’t mind my asking?” 

“I do,” Jon says, marking a bright red tick X over a question a student got wrong. 

“Ouch. Sorry,” says Tim. “It’s just a little confusing, is all. I really thought you fancied him.”

Jon freezes, his pen still touching the paper. “Did Georgie tell you?” he asks. She wouldn’t, he’s always been able to trust her—

“What do you mean, did she tell me?” Tim says, narrowing his eyes. Shit. Now Jon’s gone and done it. Tim throws his pen aside, sitting up straight. “You _do_ fancy him?” he demands. “Since when?”

“Shh!” Jon hisses. “I’m not trying to go broadcasting it to the world!”

“And why not? Might make things a bit simpler! Christ, Jon, why’d you run off that night, then? Am I missing something here?” 

“It didn’t mean anything,” Jon mutters. “He and I have already discussed it. It was just a one-time thing, but I can’t do something like that, i-it… it just caught me off guard, was all. I don’t really want to talk about it.”

Tim gives him a hard look.

“Why do you think he kissed you?” he asks.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it,” Jon snaps. “I’ve already gone over it with Martin, and then again with Georgie, and I’m tired of thinking about it, all right? I just want to move on from all of this and go back to normal.”

“Christ, you’re so bloody stupid,” Tim says under his breath. Jon bristles. Before he can reply, Tim raises his voice again and says, “Fine. Fine! I won’t make you talk about it with me. You might want to consider talking to someone _else_ , though, and get your shit together before the tension kills me. It sucks not being able to hang out with you and Martin in the same room.”

He flips open a new quiz packet decisively, his jaw set, and doesn’t look up at Jon again. 

Jon sighs and turns his attention back to his own work. Tim has a point—this is hardly just between Martin and Jon anymore. Everyone can tell how awkward it is. Maybe Jon _should_ talk to Martin again. 

That might be a good choice. But the thought of it still makes Jon’s stomach churn. 

He goes back to crossing off incorrect answers. The ink bleeds bright red against the page, glaring back up at him, and with every X, it feels like he’s marking down another of his own mistakes.

***

>   
>  **Dear Watcher,**  
>  So. I have a problem. There’s this guy who I really really really like, and I finally got up the nerve to make a move, but I fucked everything up and now it’s all gone wrong. I’m pretty sure I know what happened and it hurts a lot but I still like him so much I can’t stand it :( I don’t know what to do  
>  _Like . Comment . Share_  
> 

***

Jon wakes up to the shrill beep of his second alarm and the instant heart attack of knowing he’s overslept. 

He throws on his clothes and runs out the door, dashing across campus with his heart in his throat. Shit, shit, shit. It’s Bouchard’s class today, and he’s a real bastard when people show up late. Jon has just enough presence of mind to silence his phone before flinging himself into the classroom, and the rest of the morning is a blur.

He doesn’t really recover until lunchtime. He’s finally shaken off the latent anxiety, enough that he can breathe and take a break from his work to scroll through Facebook. His phone has been buzzing all morning, but whatever has got everyone so excited, it doesn’t seem like it’ll help him feel any more relaxed, so he elects to ignore it. 

He pulls up _The Watcher_ and scrolls idly, pausing to read any of the posts that look particularly interesting. There’s the usual mix of content—shoutouts and secret admirers, questions about academics, political debates, pleas for the political debates to stop. Jon hits Like on a particularly scathing review of the chemistry department and goes to read the next post.

 _Dear Watcher,_ it reads. _So. I have a problem._

As Jon reads, time slows to a crawl, and his heartbeat grinds to a halt. 

He checks his phone.

The homescreen is full of notifications, most of which are from Georgie, but with a few interjections from Tim and Melanie. _Where are you,_ reads one. _There’s something you should know,_ says another. _Hey, you checked Facebook lately?_ says the most recent one from Tim. 

The post is anonymous. There’s no way of knowing who it’s from, or confirming suspicions. But it would fit, wouldn’t it? Martin definitely reads _The Watcher._ If… If he really did reciprocate Jon’s feelings, it’d be just like him to make a post, and even more like him to blame himself for everything that’s happened.

Jon can’t let him believe it’s his fault. Letting Martin hurt would just be cruel.

With trembling hands, he hits _comment._

 _You should talk to him,_ he says. _It probably wasn’t what you think it was. People make stupid mistakes sometimes._

After a moment’s hesitation, he adds on, _I would know,_ and hits enter. 

He sits back, exhaling shakily. It feels like he’s just defused a bomb, but there’s none of the relief of knowing it won’t explode on him; on the contrary, he might have just sealed his own fate.

He tries to go back to his homework, but there’s no point. He’s vibrating out of his skin. Every time he tries to read, his eyes just skip over it, and his thoughts slingshot right back to Martin. 

His phone buzzes, and Jon nearly knocks it off his desk in his haste to check the notification.

It’s from Georgie. He slumps down in his chair. _Are u okay??_ she asks. _In case you didn’t see the million previous texts, I’m trying to get ahold of you. Starting to get worried over here._

Jon starts to type out a reply, but as he does so, a new notification appears at the top of his screen.

It’s from Martin.

Jon’s heart jumps into his throat. He taps on it. _Hey,_ it says. _So… I don’t know if I’m misreading things, but here goes nothing. Did you know it was me? And if so, did you mean what you said?_

 _Which part?_ Jon asks.

 _I’ll take that as a yes,_ says Martin. There’s a pause, then: _The part about talking._ Another pause. _And making mistakes._

 _I meant it,_ says Jon. He holds his phone tightly, a vain attempt to anchor himself as his body buzzes with adrenaline. This is it. The Conversation. It shouldn’t happen like this, but how is he supposed to do it properly if he can barely even handle it over text? 

He can almost hear Georgie scolding him.

 _Do you want to talk about this face to face?_ he writes, and hits send before he can change his mind. 

_Yeah, that sounds like a good idea,_ comes the immediate reply. _I actually have class in a minute, but do you want to meet up around four? I could meet you outside the student center._

 _I can do that,_ says Jon. 

_Great. See you then._

Jon stares at his phone. Great. Just a few more hours, and all this will be out in the open. 

How the hell is he supposed to make it for a few more hours?

In the end, he does. It’s a miserable few hours, with his heart banging at his ribs the entire time, but he manages to distract himself long enough to make it bearable. Gerry comes in around 3:30. He doesn’t say anything, but after one look at Jon, he sets up his electric kettle, and a few minutes later a steaming mug of tea is wordlessly slid over Jon’s desk. Jon takes it gratefully. It doesn’t do much to take his mind off Martin, but the heat between his hands helps to ground him. 

At ten minutes to four, Jon ducks out of the room and heads for the campus center. He has his speech all laid out: he’s going to apologize for running away, and for avoiding Martin. He’ll apologize for making Martin feel like it was his fault, and explain that he was just scared, because… because he likes Martin. That’s the part that he can’t imagine himself actually saying out loud, but if Martin had managed to write it on a public Facebook page, Jon will just have to suck it up. 

Martin did have the advantage of being anonymous in that particular situation, but it doesn’t matter. Jon has to do this. Georgie was right. It can’t work out if he doesn’t try, and despite his best efforts, the little seedling of hope has taken root in his heart.

If only the fear wouldn’t stop crushing it down. 

Jon takes a seat on the campus center steps and waits.

It doesn’t take Martin long. He waves to Jon as he approaches. “Hey,” he says. He’s smiling, but it’s restrained; his posture is too stiff. “So, um. I was thinking we could walk around campus a bit? Talk?”

“Yes, that sounds good,” says Jon. He gets up, and they start to walk down the sidewalk. A silence swells between them. Jon holds his breath. They reach the end of the path, where it turns out onto the street. Jon leads them off to the right, following the wrought-iron gate around the green.

Martin is the first to speak.

“So, I guess you know now,” he says.

“Know what?” Jon asks. 

“Please, Jon,” Martin says quietly. He looks around, but there’s no one walking nearby. “I like you, okay? As more than a friend. I have for a while.”

Jon swallows hard. 

“I-I do too,” he says. Martin’s eyebrows shoot up, but Jon keeps talking, quickly, before Martin can get a word out: “I know I’ve made it… confusing, and I’m sorry, I-I just… I didn’t know if you meant it, at first. At the party. I thought maybe it was just because we were drunk, or something. I didn’t think it could be me.”

“W-wait, wait, hold on,” Martin says. “You like me? Like, actually, reciprocally like me? Romantically?”

Jon nods.

Martin slowly takes in a deep breath. “Okay,” he says cautiously, and lets it out again. “And why didn’t you say something sooner?”

Jon winces. “I was scared of what you’d say. And I…” He runs his hand along the fence as he walks. “I’m not great at relationships,” he admits. “My last one was years ago, and it didn’t go very well. I didn’t want that to happen with you, especially not if… well, another thing. I’m ace, and I—I don’t really do sex? On the whole? And I know that’s a dealbreaker for a lot of people, so sometimes, it seems like it’s better not to get my hopes up?”

Martin laughs. Then he covers his mouth with his hand. “Oh God, I’m sorry,” he says, sounding guilty but still stifling a smile. “I’m not laughing at you, I swear, I just—oh my God, that’s _all_?”

“What do you mean, that’s all?” Jon says. “It’s important to me, Martin, I—”

“No no no, I don’t mean it like that,” Martin says quickly, sobering up at once. “I just. I might have made some assumptions that were way off base, is all.”

Jon quirks an eyebrow. “Well, now you have to tell me.”

Martin looks away. “Oh God, I shouldn’t have said anything, this is embarrassing,” he says. His face and ears have gone red. He mumbles something Jon can’t make out.

“Sorry, what was that?”

“I said, I might have thought it was because I was trans,” Martin says in a rush. “Maybe. I mean, you seemed like maybe you might’ve been interested, but then I kissed you, and—look, it’s hard to tell if people will be cool with it sometimes, especially with gay guys, like seriously, you never know if somebody’ll just drop you for it the minute they—”

“Okay, well, first of all, I’m biromantic,” Jon cuts him off. He frowns. “Second of all… no, that’s not what it was at all.” He grabs Martin’s hand and pulls him to a stop, looking him right in the eyes. “I like you exactly as you are, and that’s as Martin,” he says, squeezing his hand. “I would never lose interest in you for something like that, I promise.”

Martin smiles. “Good,” he says. “A-and… same to you, for the record. Actually, it’s… kind of a relief not to have to worry about the whole sex thing? That’s not really something I’m comfortable with either, what with dysphoria and all, and—and even if that changes, it wouldn't change the way I feel about you. I like you the way you are, too.”

“So…” says Jon.

“So,” Martin echoes.

“So, what does this… mean, exactly? For us?” Jon asks.

“What do you want it to mean?” Martin asks. 

_Don’t leave it up to me,_ Jon wants to say. He’s already made so many mistakes, he can’t bear the responsibility of having to define this. But instead, he says, “I… If you’d be willing to, I think I’d like to try doing this for real. As in, try having a relationship. Or at least head in that direction, I know it might take—”

“I want that too,” Martin interrupts him. “I mean, it sounds like a lot of this has just been a misunderstanding, right?” Jon nods. “Right, yeah. And I…” He flushes. “I still feel the same way about you as I always have. So I think that could be... nice.” 

Silence falls between them. It’s not awkward like it was before, but it’s not quite natural, either. Jon will admit, he doesn’t know what to do at this point; he didn’t think he would make it this far. It had always seemed like too much, to imagine actually getting everything he wanted. But here he is. He’s done it. 

And there’s still one more thing he wants.

“Can I kiss you?” he asks, and clarifies, “Not as a one-time thing?”

Martin laughs. “I never wanted it to be a one-time thing, Jon,” he says, so soft and fond that Jon can’t resist any longer. He leans in, close enough to feel Martin’s breath against his lips. He lingers there for a moment, struggling to break through the inertia of what they _were_ into what they could be. Then he braces himself and closes the gap.

Martin melts into him at once, his arms wrapping around Jon’s waist. It helps to anchor Jon, keeps him grounded in the sensation of Martin’s lips against his, even as the thrill of it sends him reeling. His hands slide up Martin’s back. This—oh, how could he have ever run from this? It’s everything. Martin draws him in closer, deepening the kiss, and Jon could lose himself in it, let the sweet softness of it overtake him. 

And so it does.

When they finally break apart, they do so slowly. Martin leans his forehead against Jon’s, smiling. “That’s how it should have gone,” he whispers. Jon nods. Martin takes both Jon’s hands in his. “So,” he says. “Do you want to get coffee sometime?”

“No,” says Jon. “I want to get coffee now.”

Martin laughs. “Okay,” he says, a note of shyness in his expression. “Coffee now, then. Shall we?”

Jon squeezes his hand, and starts to walk down the sidewalk with him.

This time, he knows exactly where he’s going.

***

Jon swipes out of the library and tucks his student ID back into his wallet. Basira is hot on his heels, pushing out the door after him. Across from the library, the grass is brilliant green and covered in students, all playing frisbee or just laying in the sun. “God, it’s beautiful out,” Basira exclaims. “Look at that! I can’t believe we’ve been trapped inside all afternoon, what a waste.”

“There’s still some time to enjoy it. Do you want to hang around on the green for a while?” Jon offers. 

“I’d like to, but I’ve got a meeting with my advisor,” Basira says with a small smile. 

“Oh, God. We’ve been back at school, what, two weeks?” Jon says. “What do you even have to talk about?”

“Too much,” Basira says. She crosses the road with Jon, lingering by the gates to the green. She runs her hand along the iron rungs as they pass. “It’s weird, isn’t it? That this is our last year here? It feels like we all just got here yesterday.” 

“Really? I feel like I’ve been here forever,” says Jon. He glances over at her, and it’s precisely the right angle for the sun to reflect off his glasses and catch him in the eye. He curses and clutches at his face, while Basira just laughs. “Ow. I’ve changed my mind, this weather is awful,” he says. “Can we have the rain back, please?”

“You won’t be saying that once it’s winter,” Basira says, amused. “Just you wait. You’ll be back to—”

Jon’s phone rings. “Sorry,” he says, taking a glance at the caller ID. It’s Martin. “Sorry, give me one second,” he says, and picks up. “Hello?”

“Hi!” says Martin. “You just got out of work, right?”

“Yes, I’m with Basira now. Do you want to join us on the green?”

“Yeah! I’ll walk over now, I’m pretty close by. Meet you by the gate?”

“Perfect. See you soon,” Jon says, and hangs up. Basira smiles at him, a gleam of something he can’t place in her eyes. “What?” he asks. 

“Oh, nothing,” she says. “I’m just here.”

“What does that mean?” Jon huffs.

“Nothing! You two are adorable, that’s all.”

“I am _not_ —”

“I didn’t say _you_ ,” Basira says, grinning. “God knows what he sees in you. You remember when you two met, and you wouldn’t stop ranting about how annoying it was when he tried to ask you how your day was, or, God forbid, make conversation?” Jon groans.

“Are you ever going to let me live that down?” he asks. 

“Nope. Not for as long as you live.” Basira checks her phone. “All right, I really should get going. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Jon smiles. “No promises.” She rolls her eyes and hitches her backpack up on her shoulders, turning to walk off down the hill. Jon goes and finds a grassy spot on the green to sit. 

The ground is warm, baked by the sun. He lays back and spreads his arms out over the grass, relishing in the deep blue of the sky above him. He stays like that for a while, watching the few wisps of cloud drift by. 

“Hey!” says Martin, popping into view. Jon sits up. 

“Hey,” he says. “How are you?”

“I’m great,” says Martin, looking amused. “And you?”

“Just enjoying the weather,” Jon says, somewhat sheepishly.

“Yeah, I can tell.” Martin sits down next to him, setting his backpack off to the side. “So,” he says. “Guess what just happened?”

“Hmm. You saw a cute dog on your way over?” Jon asks.

“No, I wish,” Martin says with a laugh. “Guess again.”

“You finished the poem you were working on?”

“Closer,” Martin says, smiling widely. He bites his lip, and then bursts out with, “Okay, you know how I’ve been sending out query letters for a while now? Well, I got replies from a few people, and there was one I really liked—we’ve talked a few times, I just got off the phone with her—and it’s official now, I’ve got a literary agent!”

Jon’s jaw drops. “You _what_?” 

“I’ve got an agent!” Martin says, beaming. “I know it’s just a first step, but I honestly never thought—”

Jon tackles him in a hug. “I didn’t even know you’d heard back from anyone!” he says. Martin laughs, squeezing Jon close to him. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me? Martin, I’m so proud of you, that’s amazing!”

“I wasn’t sure if anything would come of it!” Martin giggles. “But it did, so. I thought you’d want to hear it in person.”

“I did. I do.” Jon presses a kiss to his cheek, then another, and another. “I knew you’d get it.”

“I didn’t,” Martin admits. “But I’m glad I did.”

“Me too.” Jon pulls back, tracing his fingers along Martin’s jaw. Martin’s smiling from ear to ear, his face pink. Jon can only imagine how this feels for him. He knows Martin gets nervous about his future sometimes, but if this isn’t a concrete step forward, he doesn’t know what is. It’s not even a fraction of what Martin deserves, but Jon knows he’ll get there. With just a little time, he’ll have it all. They both will.

Martin looks so beautiful when he smiles, the sun turning his brown eyes honey-golden, and before Jon can think twice, he blurts out, “I love you.”

It takes a moment to process. Then Martin’s smile grows impossibly wider, and he kisses Jon, quick and soft. “I love you, too,” he says. 

Jon’s heart feels like it’s going to beat out of his chest. He holds his breath, waiting for the rollercoaster drop, the moment when he can tear his gaze away from Martin. It never comes. They just look at each other, smiling like fools. 

Martin tucks a lock of hair behind Jon’s ear. “I love you,” he says again, quieter this time.

Jon was wrong, before. Martin doesn’t need time to have it all; neither of them do. 

They already have everything they need.

**Author's Note:**

> if you like this verse, stay tuned, cause there's more comin! i'm working on a long gerry-centric fic and a handful of other oneshots. you can also follow me on [tumblr](spiralsandeyes.tumblr.com) if you want! :D
> 
> thanks for reading! <3


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